


Una Bella Vita

by empress_ofbloodshed



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:34:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 54,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27043570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/empress_ofbloodshed/pseuds/empress_ofbloodshed
Summary: inspired by Netflix's Medici: The Magnificent* * *The Archerons are famous in the city of Velaris for their generosity and for lifting the city out of the Dark Ages to the cultural and artistic marvel it is today. But even with love and adoration, they still have enemies.Cassian Soldato is the bastard son of the mercenary lord. There has always been a fragile peace between the two families, at least until Nesta uncovers a deadly secret. To prevent all-out war, their parents agree on a fragile peace treaty: Nesta and Cassian must marry.Azriel Romano is a painter commissioned by Signora Archeron to paint portraits of her daughters. Utterly enraptured by Elain, he dreams of painting her as a goddess in the Garden of the Maiden.Rhysand Campagna was disowned by his father, living a simple life fishing on the Sidra. Over two years ago, he and Feyre planned to run away to the sea and marry. Then she disappeared without a goodbye.Now Feyre’s back in the city for her father’s funeral and her older sister’s wedding. With a secret Rhys is never allowed to find out about.A beautiful life, isn’t it?
Relationships: Elain Archeron/Azriel, Feyre Archeron & Tamlin, Feyre Archeron/Rhysand, Nesta Archeron/Cassian
Comments: 5
Kudos: 39





	1. Prologue

Lorenzo Archeron strolled through the rows of grapevines, his faithful hound on his heels. Plucking a few from their vine as he went along, he slipped most of them into the bag slung across his shoulder. He always tasted a few to make sure their flavor was similar and that they would be good wine-making grapes.

The sun shone bright and hot on the vineyard, but Lorenzo could feel a storm on the wind. That was good for his grapes. They needed to be harvested in a few weeks to prepare for this year’s wine-making.

Whistling a merry tune, he set his bag down on the table inside his little house on the outskirts of his vineyard. He pulled a carafe of wine from the alcove meant to keep them cool, pouring himself a glass and sitting out on the porch with his hound at his feet.

She stood up, barking at the vineyards. “Shh, girl,” Lorenzo told her, rubbing her head until she laid back down at his feet.

The hills rolled into the distance, neat rows of grapevines patterning the countryside. Sighing, he sipped his wine.

The bank was perfectly fine in the hands of his wife and daughters while he spent three days at his vineyard to check on their growth. It was a pity he had no sons, but he mused the Mother had her reasons for everything.

He coughed, thinking nothing of it. Air was harder to breathe as it felt like his throat was being squeezed by an invisible hand. Then he realised why the wine tasted off.

It was poisoned.

* * *

The messenger rode into the Archeron complex with a storm on his heels, his horse agitated and unable to be calmed down. A maidservant came to greet him, waving over the groom to take care of his horse.

“Signora Archeron. I must see Signora Archeron immediately,” he said.

One of her daughters stepped off the last stair into the cobble-stoned livery gate. She clutched a book in her arms. Staring the messenger straight in the eyes, she asked, “Why must you see my mother immediately?”

The messenger tugged at the laces of his tunic. “Your father, signorina, is dead.”


	2. One

Nesta Archeron stood on the opposite end of the table as her mother. Elain lounged on the sofa, needlework in hand. Feyre held a glass in one hand, the wine carafe in the other.

“Mama, he was poisoned,” Nesta argued. “The doctor in the square said he could confirm, if we allowed him to perform an autopsy on Papa’s body.”

Dressed in mourning blacks, her mother was an intimidating figure. She wasn’t tall like Nesta, that had come from her father. She was about Feyre’s height, but carried herself like she was taller than her eldest daughter. The raven black hair hadn’t been passed on to her daughters, but both Nesta and Feyre got her piercing blue-grey eyes.

“You will not desecrate your father’s body,” Alessandra Archeron said, her mind already made up. “End this thinking, now. His funeral is in three days.”

“It’s not desecration, it’s scienceー”

“Nesta Archeron. Until you are married, I still control this bank and this family. Do not breathe another word about this,” her mother commanded, “to anyone, not even Lucien.”

Fuming, Nesta left the room and headed for the stables. Her mother may have been head of the family, but she couldn’t control her daughters. Saddling Tempest, she rode through the city streets until she got to the square. Children kicked a ball around, screaming and laughing. Vendors hawked their wares, the dyed cotton and silks fluttering in the slight breeze.

Thankfully, a page boy from the temple came to hold Nesta’s horse as she strode through the market. Lingering in front of the jeweler’s stall, she waited until the guards her mother always had following them were distracted before slipping off to see Doctor Matthias.

“Ah, Signorina Archeron,” Matthias greeted her, taking her hands in his. “What did your mother have to say?”

Picking up jars and brushing her fingers along the dried herbs hanging from the ceiling, Nesta scoffed. “She said it would be ‘desecrating his body.’ Papa was poisoned, I know it. And I’m willing to bet it was those godsdamned Soldatos.”

“Ladies shouldn’t swear,” Matthias chuckled. Then his smile fell. “I’m afraid I can’t help you then. Your mother can wreck my life here in Velaris with a few carefully placed words.”

“Thank you again, Matthias. But I should be going before my guards realise I’m not in the market anymore,” Nesta sighed. So she needed her mother’s express permission to find out if her father was murdered.

The doctor gave her a gentle shove out the door and Nesta slipped back into the bustling market as if she had been there the entire time. One of her guards came up to her, telling her that her mother wished to speak with her.

Back home, Signora Archeron waited for Nesta in the garden. A statue of David stood in the fountain. She linked her arm with her daughter’s, strolling through the garden.

“Do you truly believe your father was poisoned?” her mother asked, as if this was a casual conversation.

Nesta stopped in her tracks, frowning. “What?”

“Keep walking. If you’re going to investigate this, keep it secret. Don’t even tell your sisters. Inform the doctor he must do his procedure here.”

As her mother walked away, Nesta stood in the entrance to the garden, struck dumb by her mother’s sudden change of attitude. Quickly, she shook it off and began the preparations for Matthias to do the autopsy on her father’s body.

* * *

Velaris was Feyre’s home. After two years in a little town no one knew the name of, her mother finally allowed her to come home for her father’s funeral. Under pain of death if she ever spoke to Rhysand Campagna again.

They had met by chance when Feyre was running away from her mother’s temper and tripped over him lying in the grass outside the city gates, admiring the stars. He was the most beautiful boy she had ever seen, with eyes of a striking violet and wavy black hair that shone in the starlight.

He had chuckled, the sound making her pulse flutter, then raised her hand to his soft lips. “Well, hello there, darling,” he purred. “I’m Rhys.”

“Feyre,” she smiled.

Six years later, the memory still made her heart skip a beat. A year of stargazing on fields outside of the city, Rhys pointing out the planets and constellations. Rhys wanted to be an astronomer and she an artist. His father despised the sciences, sending him off to be a priest. Rhys being well, Rhys, he was kicked out and his father all but disowned him.

When he returned to Velaris, it was like he hadn’t been gone for a day. They were in love and nothing could dampen their spirits. They had even planned to run away to the sea and get married, doing what they loved with the one they loved.

But then Feyre found out she was pregnant. Seventeen years old and the daughter of one of the most powerful bankers in Velaris. It was a miracle her parents didn’t kick her out onto the street.

Instead, they sent her away.

To anyone that asked, Feyre was spreading the word of the Mother across Prythian. In reality, she was cooped up in a tiny villa with three handmaidens and a guard to watch her every move.

Now that Feyre was back in Velaris with her daughter Rosa, there was the thrill and fear of seeing Rhysand again. She didn’t think she would though, not with her mother breathing down her neck.

* * *

Holding a basket of plants and herbs, Elain rushed through the complex to the garden. A few years ago, she decided she didn’t like the design and ripped it all out, starting from scratch. The gardeners went into a tizzy, while her father just laughed and encouraged her.

Lavender grew beautifully under the statue of a nude wood nymph, a gift from some lord her father knew. Most other gardens in the city had tamed roses. Elain hated it. It was too perfect and too stifled. She loved the natural chaos of her garden, even when the sun beat down and burned her creamy skin. Even when she had to spend hours weeding.

She had just gotten settled when she heard Nesta calling her and groaned. This free time was supposed to be her escape to the garden.

“Lanie!” Nesta called out. Then a shadow loomed over Elain. “The artist Mama commissioned to paint our portraits is here. Brush off the dirt and get rid of the apron. We’ll be in the sitting room.” Then her older sister swept off.

Elain padded into the sitting room, seeing her mother and sisters seated while sipping wine. Her mother stood, introducing Elain. “Elain, this is Azriel Romano. He’ll be painting portraits of you and your sisters. While he does so, he’ll be staying here.”

Gods, he was beautiful. He looked straight out of a painting with inky black hair shorn short, amber eyes that sparkled in the sunlight streaming in through the windows, and the cheekbones straight off a Grecian statue. She hadn’t realised she’d been staring until Feyre yanked her down onto the sofa.

Her face felt like it was on fire and she refused to meet the artist’s eyes. From the corner of her eye, she saw his face was just as red as hers.

* * *

The blunted sword in Cassian’s hand sang as he whirled on an unsuspecting Rhys. He swiped a bead of sweat off his forehead, blowing the loose strand of hair away. Rhys swore as the flat side of Cassian’s sword connected with the back of his thigh.

A horse whinnied and the two backed off, hanging their swords on the rack. Cassian splashed water on his face, drying off with a towel left by a servant. His chest still heaved from sparring with Rhys and he knew he would have a few bruises showing up tomorrow.

He didn’t bother putting his doublet over his loose tunic. It was too godsdamned hot, and they were only going to greet a returning Azriel.

Cassian was the bastard son of Lord Soldato, borne to him by a woman he raped. His father was an abusive man, but thankfully was almost never in Velaris because he commanded a group of mercenaries that fought all over Prythian for whoever paid them the most. The only reason he had the prick’s last name was because his father’s wives couldn’t give him a son. Only girls.

On his tenth birthday he and his mother were dragged to Velaris to meet his father. When his mother refused to marry him because she had heard stories of him killing the others when they couldn’t give him sons, Lord Soldato tortured her before handing her over to his soldiers to do with her as they pleased. Her body was tossed in a ditch somewhere, never given the proper funeral rites.

Cassian had never forgiven him. He lived in his father’s house, waiting for the day when he could kill him. He would make his father suffer for what he did to Cassian’s mother.

Rhys snapped his fingers in Cassian’s face. “Hey, plot your father’s death later. Az is back. We can finally drink in celebration,” Rhys grinned, rushing off to find the expensive wine.

Since Lord Soldato was never home, Rhys and Azriel lived in the compound on the outskirts of the city with him. 

Azriel rounded the corner, too concentrated on his sketchbook to pay any attention to his surroundings until Cassian took it out of his hands, flipping through it. There were rough sketchesーrough meant they were sketched to perfection, there was just no paintーof three women, one holding a child.

“Cassian!” Azriel protested, trying to reclaim his sketchbook. “I need that. Give it back.”

Cassian laughed and danced away from his annoyed friend, but his eyes were drawn to the one in the upper right-hand corner. Even sketched in charcoal, her eyes pierced his soul. Her hair was braided into a crown, a few loose wisps framing her face.

Rhys sauntered up, drinking straight from the bottle of wine. He took one look at the sketchbook in Cassian’s hands and spewed his mouthful of wine. Azriel grumbled something about it thankfully missing his sketches, but his pale blue tunic was soaked with red droplets.

Hand shaking, Rhys pointed at the sketch of the woman holding the child. “That’s Feyre. You’re commissioned to do portraits for the Archerons and you didn’t say anything?,” he shouted. “And Feyre was there? I haven’t seen her in over two years.”

Instead of replying, Azriel took the bottle from Rhys and took a long swig. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he handed the bottle back to Rhys and ripped his sketchbook out of Cassian’s hands.

Cassian knew of the romance between Rhys and Feyre. She loved him and they were prepared to run away together, but then she just vanished a week before they were supposed to leave. From the young girl in the sketches, Cassian guessed Feyre had gotten pregnant and was sent away. The only reason for her return now was her father’s funeral.

As Azriel stalked off, he turned back to look at Cassian. “I’ve heard rumours in the streets that your father’s coming home,” he said, grimacing.

Cassian’s heart dropped into his stomach. Swearing, he took the bottle from a still-stunned Rhys and chugged the rest of its contents, barely even tasting the wine.

“Let’s get shit-faced while we still have our freedom, yeah?” Cassian asked Rhys with a cocky grin. It hid how fucking terrified he was. His father’s return meant nothing good for anyone.


	3. Two

Elain carried a stack of bank records disguised as botanical encyclopedias to the room where her mother and Lucien were working, struggling not to drop any. The top one began to wobble and it only took a few seconds before it fell.

Cursing silently, Elain set her stack of books to the ground and reset everything before picking it up again. Now she hurried along through the halls. Her mother didn’t like the records being late.

The books tumbled from her arms as she tripped over one of Rosa’s dolls, spilling all over the floor. Elain herself was saved from falling by a set of strong hands around her waist. She turned to thank whoever saved her from embarrassment, only to see the artist. Signor Azriel Romano.

His hands still rested on her waist, his grip loose enough to not make her feel trapped but tight enough to save her if she fell again. A smudge of white paint was smeared across his jaw, like he had absentmindedly wiped something away. Those beautifully pink lips twitched up into a smile as he brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. Elain flushed.

“Let me help you,” he said, his voice low and soft. Elain nearly swooned, but forced herself to gather the books and not think about him.

“Thank you,” she squeaked, taking the books from his hands and rushing off. She stood with her back pressed up against the stone just outside where her mother and Lucien were working, trying to calm her racing heart.

Lucien stepped out into the hall, taking the books from Elain’s arms before heading back inside. A few moments later, he returned and linked his arm with hers. “So, Ellie, who did you run into that you’re blushing so hard?” her friend chuckled. She bit her lip to hide her smile, but nothing got past Lucien. “Ooh, I bet it was that pretty painter. Right?”

Elain just shrugged.

His fox-like grin meant she was going to dread whatever happened next. Seconds later, they found themselves standing outside Azriel’s studio. The door was open and she caught glimpses of Rosa giggling.

Lucien dragged Elain inside, peering over Azriel’s shoulder to look at his sketches. Feyre sat on a bench with Rosa in her arms. Sunlight streamed through the windows, making her little sister glow in the midnight blue gown she wore for her sitting. Rosa was yanking the petals off of a blood-red rose one by one.

Noticing more distractions had arrived, Azriel sighed. Setting down his charcoal stick, he waved a hand to let Feyre know she was done for the moment.

Lucien promptly dropped Elain’s arm, scooping up a squealing Rosa and dragging Feyre out of the room, shooting Elain a knowing wink. Elain glared at her friend, whose laughter only trailed in his wake.

“Signorina Archeron,” he startled Elain, “are you here for something in particular?”

Elain fidgeted, flipping through blank papers and playing with a paintbrush. “No, I just wanted to thank you for catching me earlier,” she replied.

His smile nearly devastated her as he gently took the brush from her hands. That white paint was still smudged along his jaw, and all she wanted to do was wipe it off.

“I’ve asked your mother for permission to paint you as a goddess in the Garden of the Maiden, but she said it was entirely up to you,” Azriel spoke, his voice echoing through his studio as he rifled through his sketches until he found the one he was looking for. A blush colored his cheeks. “You would have to be mostly nude, though.”

He handed her a sheet of paper. A woman sat on a stone bench, a crown of vines adorning her loose hair while cupping a white lotus in full bloom in her hands. The only thing covering her was a sheet of pale pink silk carefully thrown across her hips. Trees filled the background, flowers blooming on the ground. A fox sat at one end of the bench, a wolf cub at the other.

“May I keep this while I think on it?” Elain questioned.

He bowed slightly. “Of course, signorina. Take your time. I do not require a decision immediately.” His voice was gentle in a way that made Elain want to say yes right then and there just so she could keep listening to it.

“Thank you again, Signor Romano.”

A quiet chuckle. “Call me Azriel, please.”

Elain smiled. “Then you must call me Elain.” With that, she swept out of his studio, trying to keep calm even as her mind was running in a thousand directions.

* * *

Cassian felt it the moment his father stepped through the city gates. It was like he had eaten something sour and no matter how much he tried to wash the taste away, it still lingered.

The cavalry arrived long before his father did. Cassian was still soberーmostlyーwhen his father and his second in command rode through the entrance to the Soldata compound.

Rhys stood at Cassian’s side, bowing low. Cassian only bowed his head before the insults began.

“Letting strays in, are we, boy?” his father drawled, viciousness oozing from his voice.

Cassian seethed but didn’t show it. Anger bubbled up inside him and he knew if he didn’t get out soon, he wouldn’t be leaving the compound alive.

The back of his father’s hand connected with his cheek, the golden ring drawing blood. No one stepped in to help. Cassian refused to meet his father’s eyes, even as the man yanked his head up so hard he swore chunks of his hair were ripped out.

“Look at me, boy,” Lord Soldata snarled. Cassian looked at him. Every second was a struggle. The scar that sliced through his left eyebrow and down his cheek was courtesy of Cassian’s mother. “You’ve been drinking my wine again. I can smell it on you. Get out. Take the river filth with you.”

An order Cassian was all too happy to obey.

“Return tomorrow at noon, boy. Sober.”

Cassian slunk away to gather his things. They would most likely end up sleeping in the temple, with priestesses watching over them. Mother Luna had taken care of Cassian since he was a child when he was kicked out of the compound.

Locking his door and tucking the key back into his shirt, Cassian saddled his horse and left, Rhys by his side. Lucky Azriel. He got to live in the Archeron complex while he worked on their commissions and didn’t have to suffer through the wrath of Cassian’s father.

Their first stop was the tavern a few blocks from the market square. No one blinked an eye as Cassian slumped down at a table, ordering a tankard of ale instead of wine. At this point, he didn’t care if it tasted like piss. He needed a fucking drink.

* * *

Matthias slipped Nesta a note as he passed her on his way out. She tucked in the front of her dress, only reading it once she was safely in her room.

_His trachea was closed up completely. My guess? Black nightshade._

Black nightshade. The preferred poison of Lord Brutus Soldato.

Nesta would love nothing more than to storm over and demand a confession from the mercenary lord. But she knew they must be smart in how they go about accusing Soldato. Women weren’t allowed to attend Priori meetings, so her mother always sent Lucien to represent the Archeron household. Nesta thought it was a bullshit rule.

She threw the note into the fireplace, watching the paper shrivel and burn until it was nothing but ashes. Then she threw on her cloak, leaving the hood down as she swept through the complex and out onto the streets of Velaris. Her guards trailed on foot a ways behind, always making sure to keep her in their sight.

Nesta greeted shopkeepers along the way, even stopping to buy a basket of apples from the fruit vendor to hand out to the children and people of Velaris. Sometimes, if she could escape long enough she would sit on a street corner and read to the children or anyone who stopped to listen. Only her guards ever saw her do this.

The apothecary’s shop lay along the banks of the Sidra. Plants filled every corner of the small shop and herbs hung from the ceiling to dry. The old woman who owned the shop glanced up when Nesta came in but then refocused on cutting basil leaves off the plant and packing them tightly into a glass jar. Nesta browsed, running her fingers along the shelves and occasionally stopping to sniff a plant or two.

She set a bundle of myrrh and sandalwood and a small jar of lavender on the counter. Just as the woman had about finished bundling up Nesta’s purchases, Nesta asked, “Has anyone bought nightshade here recently?”

The woman frowned. “Maybe.” Nesta slid a gold coin across the counter and it was quickly snatched. “A man came in about two weeks ago. Said he was buying it for his wife, but I didn’t see any type of ring. Normally, the women come in and buy it themselves,” she said.

“Did you get his name?” Nesta asked, not wanting to push her for information only to have her clam up.

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

Lips twitching, Nesta slid two more gold coins across the counter.

“His name was Tomas Mandray. I didn’t have any in stock that day so he had to come back. But I have the receipt with his name on it, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

Nesta blanched. Tomas was Soldato’s third-in-command. Poison was his choice of weapon because he didn’t like the blood. “How much?” Nesta forced her hands to remain steady as she reached for more coins.

The old woman grinned wolfishly. “Five goldens, my dear.”

Nesta gave her seven. “Two for your discretion if anyone else comes asking. Thank you.”

Tucking the receipt into her bodice, Nesta took her purchases and headed home, not complaining as her guards trailed her closer than they had been before. Tomas Mandray was just as much of a snake as Lord Soldato. And if the latter had returned for her father’s funeral, the former would be following him from the shadows.

* * *

Rhys resented being called river filth. But he supposed Cassian’s father was right. Although he much preferred the stink of fish and river water to the priesthood his own father wanted for him. Or killing and being one of Lord Soldato’s mercenaries.

Too many times he had anchored his fishing boat in the middle of the Sidra and just lay on the deck, staring at the stars. He knew wherever Feyre was, she was looking up at the same stars. It gave him some semblance of comfort.

But after seeing Azriel’s sketches, Rhys just wanted to see her. Even if it was from a distance. He wanted to see that she was doing well without him, even if it broke his heart.

He had always had the nagging feeling that her parents, her mother in particular, grew tired of her relationship with Rhys and sent her off to be married.

Joining Cassian at the tavern, he drank until he couldn’t remember being insulted by the older Soldato then stumbled onto his boat, puked over the side, and promptly passed out on the deck.


	4. Three

The bells of Velaris tolled three times: funeral bells.

Feyre thought the sky matched the city’s mood. Clouds heavy with rain hovered over the city, the air thick with a storm moving in. As her father’s coffin moved through the city streets, flowers were thrown in it’s path.

The groom holding the horse kept her calm, even as thunder rumbled above. The city was silent, eerily so. Lorenzo Archeron had been beloved by all for his kindness and generosity.

Feyre’s veil itched and she wanted to rip it off. Instead, she focused counting the cobblestones underneath her black slippers as they neared the temple. A priestess in the tower rang the bells thrice more as the funeral procession finally arrived at the temple.

Mother Luna blessed the coffin, the entire city joining her in the last rite as a group of men lowered the coffin onto the pyre.

“Mother hold you. May you pass through the gates; may you smell that immortal land of milk and honey. Fear no evil. Fear no pain. May you enter eternity.”

Elain sobbed next to Feyre. Nesta stood with her back straight, staring through the flames of the pyre. No tears fell from her older sister’s eyes. Feyre held Rosa tightly in her arms, her daughter yawning and falling asleep on her shoulder as they watched the wooden coffin crack and burn.

Their mother knelt inside the temple, praying to the Mother.

Once the fire was done burning and nothing but ashes was left, a priestess brushed all the ashes together and poured them into an urn that was handed to Feyre’s mother. She thanked the people of Velaris for coming, sweeping into the crowd to accept their condolences personally.

Feyre had hoped to catch a glimpse of Rhys today, but everyone scattered as soon as the sky opened up. Guards rushed her and her sisters into the temple, one heading back to the complex and returning with a carriage.

The rain poured down, thunder rattling the carriage and spooking the horse. Rosa screamed and cried, her hands clamped down over her ears. Feyre tried to soothe her, but was startled by the bolt of lightning striking the street practically next to them. The horse reared, whinnying loudly. Guards yelled outside, pounding rain muffling their voices.

Feyre just wanted to go home.

* * *

Nesta peeled off her soaking gown, two handmaidens undressing her the rest of the way before leaving her to bathe in peace. The water was hot and she sighed, sinking in up to her neck.

Closing her eyes, she sunk under the water until her lungs burned. Air tasted blissfully sweet above the surface. Pulling her knees to her chest, Nesta let the tears fall.

There was virtually no way she could prove to the Priori her father was murdered without a confession from Tomas. And she was a woman. They would never believe her even if she had proof, a signed handwritten confession, and Tomas confessing before them.

As much as she despised her father some days, he was different. He didn’t balk at the fact he was given three girls and not a single boy. Instead, he taught Nesta all she needed to know about the bank and how to run it once he retired.

He loved her, in his own way.

The times he woke her up in the middle of the night holding a candle with a finger to his lips, grinning. In the silence of the garden and cobblestoned entrance to the complex with only the moon and stars as light, he taught her to wield sword, knife and bow. When her mother took away her books on the studies of human anatomy and the sciences, her father always snuck them back into her room with a few extra candles.

But after Feyre was born, she was his favorite.

Nesta still learned how to manage the bank and protect herself, but the spark that used to be there had vanished and it only returned when he was teaching Feyre to play dice or how to smuggle sweets out of the kitchen.

So Nesta excelled at whatever she did, trying to regain his attention. The bank’s records were flawless, never a cent unaccounted for. She disarmed her father more times than she could count.

Still, Feyre was the center of his attention. She was the baby, always getting herself into trouble.

When perfection failed, Nesta turned to her books, losing herself in the stories of distant lands full of magic and wonder. Romance novels came later, after she had learned all she could from the books and journals on the natural sciences.

“Signorina,” her handmaiden mumbled, bowing low. Nesta hadn’t realised the water had gone cold. Her tears had dried long before the water lost its warmth.

Water sloshed onto the floor as Nesta stepped out of the bath, letting the handmaiden dry her off. Wrapped in a grey cotton robe, Nesta allowed herself to be sat down in front of the vanity. Went through the motions of preparing for the reception that was to occur tonight without thinking.

All of Velaris society would be there tonight to offer the family their condolences while drinking their wine and eating their food. That meant the Soldatos.

Nesta squeezed the glass of wine in her hand so hard it shattered. Her handmaiden panicked, calling for others to clean up the mess while she inspected her mistress’s hand for cuts. Annoyed, Nesta shooed them all out once they cleaned up the broken glass and spilled wine so she could dress herself.

The gown was beautiful, but tonight she hated it. Black lace covered the nude bodice and a rich burgundy underskirt showed through the black silk.

Sheathing her dagger on her thigh, Nesta sighed. Maybe she should’ve let one of them stay. These damned dresses were hard enough to get on without a corset, let alone with one.

* * *

Azriel hated parties. So he gave the kitchen cook a soft smile and then vanished into his studio with a carafe of wine, freshly baked bread, and a plate of the main course for tonight.

Lamb was nearly impossible to come by. Unless of course you had the money, which the Archerons did. It was drizzled with a gravy and came with roasted vegetables, which he figured came from the gardens inside the complex.

Azriel had to bite back his groan of pleasure at the first bite of lamb because it was so damned good. The bread was even still warm. If this was how he could live if he had money, he was wholly prepared to suffer marrying some highborn lady to get it.

Although with the gold Signora Archeron was paying him for her daughters’ portraits, he could afford to buy a nice little cottage in the countryside, even hire a cook and a servant.

So focused on how delicious his meal was, he didn’t hear the heavy wooden doors creak open and closed until someone sighed. Whipping around, he nearly spilled his wine.

Elain stood with her back pressed against the door, eyes squeezed shut. Rapid footsteps rushed past outside before her body sagged in relief. Then she saw Azriel and shrieked.

“Gods, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to burst in, I’m just trying to hide from Graysen. He’s been hounding me all night, and …”

Elain was rambling. Although the only thing Azriel could focus on was the flush that colored her cheeks and crept down to her chest. Mother bless him, his mind’s eye already began undressing her and before he knew it, the painting was crystal-clear.

“Signor Romano?” she questioned, seeing him throwing papers around until he found a blank piece and charcoal stick.

Azriel sketched furiously for a few minutes before he sighed heavily, sitting it upright against the half-finished underpainting of Feyre and Rosa before stepping back. Cocking his head, he hummed, making notes on another sheet of paper.

“Am I allowed to look or is this some secret artist ritual?” Elain said, biting her lip to hide her smile.

He had completely forgotten that she was standing there.

Dragging a hand through his hair, Azriel nodded. “Go ahead,” he mumbled, suddenly becoming very self-conscious.

The silence as Elain pored over his sketch was going to be the death of him. Fiddling with drying brushes to distract himself, Azriel accidentally knocked over whole jar of them. He swore as they clattered to the ground around him.

By the time he collected them all, Elain was sipping from his glass of wine. She gestured toward his sketch. “It’s beautiful, but I think it should be a crown of wisteria and foxgloves. They’re pretty flowers to anyone simply looking, but dangerous because of their poisonous properties. You could braid them together with stems from a rose bush. And make the tree in the background a weeping willow. Oh I know! A black pantherーyou’ve heard of those, right? Anyway, make it lie on the bench next its mistressー

“My apologiesーI’m rambling. You’re the artist. I’m just the subject.”

Her cheeks turned crimson from embarrassment.

Azriel flashed her one of his rare grins. “Not at all. Rarely do I get critiqued by my subject,” he chuckled. “It’s a welcome change.”

The door opened, the red-headed man sticking his head in the room. Lucien, Azriel thought his name was. “Elain, your mother’s looking for you,” he announced. Then his gaze flicked between Azriel and a blushing Elain. His smile was too sly to mean anything good.

Elain apologised, leaving arm-in-arm with the redhead. He reminded Azriel of a fox, a sly, cunning one who crouched in the chicken coop, waiting for the right moment to strike.

* * *

Cassian flashed a brunette a grin, watching her cross her arms and push her breasts further out of her bodice. Draining his glass, he grimaced. Let the girl think it was the wine, not her, that disgusted him.

His father was nowhere to be found, which he supposed was a miracle in itself. The room hummed with conversation, the mood wholly opposite of what one would expect the day of a funeral. 

Glancing around, Cassian looked for anyone he could make polite conversation with. No one would meet his eye. First off, they had never liked his father. Second, he was a bastard. The combination of the two was a very strong social deterrent.

Azriel was somewhere in this massive fucking place, but he had no idea where to start. Cassian wished he could sit with his friends and laugh as they drank piss-poor ale at the tavern.

A hand wrapped around his elbow and he glanced over, startled. It was just Mor, looking like a stranger dressed in black instead of red. She was the one person who would willingly strike up a conversation with him.

“I hate these, don’t you, Cass?” Mor grumbled.

Winking at her, Cassian shrugged. “The corset or whatever you’d call this?”

She elbowed his side with a smile and he laughed. The room went silent as a crypt and all eyes landed on them.

Mor waved her arm, the golden bracelets clinking merrily. “My apologies, he’s had a little too much to drink,” she announced. That was enough to make them go back to their conversations and ignore him once again.

All of a sudden, the room was stifling. Cassian fled, running into a handmaiden in the halls. “Where’s the garden?” he choked out. She nervously gave him directions, scurrying off.

A fountain bubbled quietly, a statue of David standing proudly in the middle. Wind rustled the flowers, pulling a few strands of Cassian’s hair from the low bun. He drank in the cool night air, savoring its refreshing sweetness. Following the path mindlessly, he stumbled upon a small clearing.

It was dirt instead of tile, like he expected. There was a little lean-to, housing quivers full of arrows, bows of different sizes, targets on wheels, and a rack of training swords, both wooden and blunted steel. Picking up one of the swords, he marveled at its beauty. It was light, the guard worked to look like snakes. Running a finger along its edge, Cassian hissed and sucked the pad of his finger clean of blood. Clearly the owner of the sword kept it razor-sharp.

This must have been Lorenzo Archeron’s training area, but Cassian didn’t understand why it was still here. The man had no sons to train. Unless he taught his daughters.

Footsteps sounded on the gravel and Cassian swore, looking for somewhere to hide. Crouched behind a straw target, he saw a woman holding her skirts in one hand, a candle in the other. The longer he looked, the more familiar she seemed.

“Mother’s tits,” Cassian breathed. This was Nesta Archeron. The woman from Azriel’s sketches.

Her head whipped in his direction and her eyes narrowed. “Whoever you are, come out now,” she ordered. Cassian didn’t dare move a muscle, not even to breathe. “I know you’re here. The sooner you come out, the more likely I’ll be willing to mistake this as an accident.”

He saw her drop her skirts, striding over to pick up the sword he had just been admiring. That’s why it was so light in his hands, it was made for a woman to wield.

“By the fucking gods,” she hissed. “Soldato, I know it’s you. My maid told me you asked for directions to the garden. Out, now.”

Cassian stood, holding his hands up in surrender. He took slow steps toward her, keeping his hands up. In the blink of an eye and a flash of silver, the tip to her blade was pressed into his throat. As he swallowed, he could feel the metal’s burning kiss.

“I happened upon this place purely by chance, I swear!” he protested, debating whether to risk it and try to disarm her or not.

She snarled, “Lies.”

With the blade drawing blood, Cassian swore. “I’m not lying, signorina. Please.”

Her eyebrows furrowed as she glared at him. Cassian gave her his signature shit-eating grin, letting her know moments too late she had let her guard down for just a second. Anyhow, a second was all he needed.

Her sword thudded dully on the dirt, her wrist twisted in Cassian’s grip. With his free hand, he brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. The oldest Archeron leaned into him, tilting her face up to his like she was about to kiss him. He was just about to place his hands on her waist when her knee slammed up into his groin.

Collapsing to the ground with a groan, Cassian spat, “You bitch.”

She smirked, picking up her sword and stepping over him, letting the dusty skirts trail over his face. She cleaned off her blade with a practiced ease, hanging it on the rack once again.

Cassian coughed, crawling to his feet. That bitch kneed him in the balls.

“Oh good, you can stand. I was worried I might have to drag you out of here.” Her voice oozed sarcasm. Then it grew stone-cold. This was the woman he heard rumours about. The Viper of Velaris. “Now leave. Say a word to anyone, I won’t just knee you in the balls next time.”

Cassian gladly left her and the whole fucking party behind. He didn’t bother to tell his father he was leaving, quickly mounting his horse and trotting through the streets of Velaris until he got to the city gates. The guards let him out without a word. Once on the road out of the city, he kicked Bryaxis into a gallop and let him choose where they were going.


	5. Four

The first few days after her father’s funeral, the city went about its day quietly. Conversations in the streets were hushed. Even the servants in the complex bustled about without making a sound.

Elain hated it. The silence was all-consuming.

She spent most of her days in the garden, steering clear of the training ring. That was Nesta’s domain. Their father had taught Elain how to protect herself if the need ever arose, but she hadn’t practiced in years.

She much preferred garden trowels over knives.

Elain was the gentle-grower of life, the daughter who smiled brighter than the sun when her hands were immersed in cool soil.

A week passed. Then another.

Life returned to its normal volume. Drunks belted their hearts out on street corners. Vendors hawked their wares in the market. Children laughed, screamed, and cried.

One morning, Elain awoke to a note slipped under her door.

_My studio, noon. - A_

She knocked on the doors to his studio, Azriel opening them wide and stepping aside to let her in. Where there should have been cluttered palettes of oil paints, books covered his work table. She recognized some as botanical journals from the family’s small library.

Trailing her fingers along the countless open pages, she drifted to a stop with her finger hovering above a book of simple faerie tales she and her sisters had been read as children. Elain smiled softly to herself, remembering the rainy days her father would sit them all down on the plush oriental carpets and read them stories of gallant knights with wings swooping in to save princesses. Stories of dragons and serpents and great warriors with titles like the Lord of Bloodshed and the Shadowsinger.

Elain remembered even sewing one of her dolls wings and playing in the garden, pretending one of her dolls was her and she was a princess locked up in a tower and the Shadowsinger would come save her from endless boredom by slaying the three-headed beast lurking in the waters below. Nesta always made fun of her for it, but Elain knew her older sister had a childhood crush on the Lord of Bloodshed and would run around in the garden with a wooden sword pretending to be him.

Those were the simpler days, before society’s expectations forced them into dresses and sitting nicely and pretending they didn’t have thoughts of their own.

But her favorite story had to be the myth of Hades and Persephone. Love and duty were two edges of the same sword, healing and harming.

“Elain?” Azriel’s fingers brushed her shoulder and she jumped. “Forgive me, you seemed to be lost in thought.”

Elain nodded, stepping back from the table to calm her racing heart. Once she was settled, she picked up the book of stories. “Why do you have all these books here? I didn’t know you were a man of books as well as art,” she said.

He looked down at the table. “I needed some inspiration for my paintings. And I still have no idea what foxgloves or wisteria look like. I’ve looked through every godsdamned botanical book and journal here,” he grumbled, picking up the journal to emphasize.

Laughing, Elain plucked the journal from him. “This is my record of what grows in my garden. They wouldn’t be in here because they’re not in my garden.”

“Oh.”

Elain giggled at his surprised face, patting his cheek twice without realising. He blushed crimson.

“The meadows outside the city have some growing naturally. We can go tomorrow afternoon, if that’s alright with you.” Setting her journal back on the table, she turned to face him. “Now, you called me here for something. What was it?”

Azriel took her hand and led her over to an easel with a massive white sheet covering it. The white sheet was covered in paint swatches, like he had used it to test colors before they went on the canvas. He pulled the sheet off with a flourish and a bow.

A weeping willow’s branches hung peacefully in the background. Flowers of all shapes, sizes, and colors grew from the ground, ivy strangling the stone bench. A fox cub and a wolf pup lay side by side to the left of the bench, the wolf pup gnawing on a piece of wood. The fox cub was too preoccupied with the butterfly on its nose. Although the stone bench was empty, Elain knew it was waiting for her and the black panther.

Elain stretched her fingers out to see if their fur was really as soft as they looked, only to have Azriel gently grab her wrist before she could touch the painting. She frowned in confusion.

“It’s still drying,” he explained. “Does it please you?”

Her wrist was still in his gentle grip when Elain beamed. She held his hands up to the shaft of sunlight, just now noticing the scars covering his hands. Azriel blanched and tried to pull his hands from her grip, but Elain wouldn’t let go.

“Beautiful,” she breathed, looking at his hands more than the painting.

Azriel tugged his hands from hers, throwing the sheet back over the painting. When he turned to look at Elain again, his face was hard. None of the softness she knew was there.

“I think you should go, Signorina Archeron,” he said coldly, leading her to the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

Then the door was shut in her face.

Elain was confused. She wanted to bang on the door and beg him to let her back in so she could apologise for whatever wrong she committed. Tears stung her eyes and she hurried to the garden, falling to her knees in front of the small altar for the Mother, letting her tears flow silently.

Lucien found her hours later, curled up in a ball asleep in the garden. He carried her up to her bedroom and helped a very sleepy Elain undress before tucking her into bed.

* * *

The handmaidens never knew about the secret compartment in Nesta’s wardrobe. Inside, in a neat folded pile with a lavender sprig to keep it smelling fresh, was a pair of dark brown trousers, a white tunic, and a dark blue doublet. Nesta gladly exchanged her heavy gown for the loose freedom of men’s clothing.

It was easier for her to leave the city dressed in men’s clothes than to leave with her retinue of guards and the carriage. She was going to her father’s vineyard to ask those working there about the events surrounding his death. Her mother, if asked where her eldest was, would say she had fallen ill with a slight fever and was sentenced to bedrest until her fever was gone.

Braiding her hair, Nesta glanced in the polished glass of her vanity before throwing her cloak overtop and lifting the hood. She slipped from her room, tiptoeing to the stables to saddle her horse. Her mother talked quietly with Matthias, who was holding the reins of his horse.

“Nesta, Matthias will be going with you. And one of your guards. I will not let you travel all that way alone.” Nesta’s mother held up a hand against her daughter’s protests. “Good luck. Return to me safe.”

That was the most Nesta would get as a goodbye.

Once astride her horse, she shot out onto the streets of Velaris and headed for the city gate. Matthias and her guard glared once they caught up with her on the road leading out of the city.

Nesta kept her hood up until they were riding alone in the countryside before she shook it off, breathing in the clean night air. It tasted different outside the city, sweeter.

They made it to the vineyards around noon the next day, only stopping to eat and relieve themselves along the way. Matthias forced her to change into a simple grey dress before they arrived, stowing her clothing in her saddlebags.

After a day of questioning the workers, Nesta found out nothing. Until she got bored and started flipping through the book of workers who only picked grapes for a short time if they needed the extra money. One name stuck out to her: Tomas Maglio.

Gasping, she pulled the receipt from the apothecary out of the hidden pocket sewn into her dress. The handwriting matched. When she looked at the dates he worked, it was only a week. The week of her father’s death.

She ripped the page out of the ledger, folding it neatly and tucking it back into the pocket of her dress along with the receipt.

Nesta decided they would stay one more day to throw off any suspicion. Walking along the rows of grapes while the head of the wine making process at the vineyard chatted her ear off, Nesta thought about how she would have to present the evidence to the Priori. The man asked if she would like to take some wine home with her and Nesta nodded without thinking.

The journey home was quiet. Her guard and Matthias talked about the city games in a few months. Nesta wondered how she would tell her mother and sisters that she had been right all along, that their father had been poisoned.

* * *

Azriel waited by the carriage, staring down at his boots splattered with both mud and paint. He hoped she would come, but he had a sinking feeling that Elain would brush him off because of how he acted in his studio when she saw his hands.

Elain called his hands beautiful.

They were hideous.

He was ashamed of the scars. They were painful memories of his childhood and he would rather forget them. He could remember his screams and the pain like it was yesterday. His older brothers and his father thought that if they ruined his hands, he couldn’t take stones and scratch the walls of his cell instead of using brushes or charcoal.

They were wrong.

Azriel had received offers for commissions from them, but he threw them in the fire every single time. He would never go back. Ever.

Elain came bustling in just as Azriel was about to head back to his studio. Her hair was in loose curls, the ends brushing her waist. She was breathing hard, clutching her botanical journal and a seemingly empty basket.

“Sorry,” she panted, swiping a strand of hair out of her face. “I lost track of time.”

Azriel chuckled as he helped her up into the carriage. Dirt stained the hem of her dress and was caked under her fingernails, like she had been working in her garden up until the very moment she remembered they were going to the meadows. He paused, wondering if he was allowed to sit inside with her or if he would have to ride alongside.

His question was answered when Elain grabbed the collar of his tunic and yanked him inside the carriage, laughing as he fell flat on his ass. “Very dignified for Velaris’s greatest painter,” she snorted, laughing even harder.

“You, quiet,” Azriel grumbled. “Or I’ll give you horns and scales and make you the lady of Hell.”

Elain grinned, tossing her hair back with the flick of her wrist. “I think I would look amazing as the lady of Hell.”

As the driver shut the door and they rattled off, Azriel huffed out a breath. _Yes, you would,_ he thought to himself. _Your beauty rivals that of the sunsets in Velaris._

He said none of that, instead dozing off to the sway of the carriage and the low murmur of Elain’s voice. He hadn’t slept in the past two days, spending all night poring over the books he borrowed and working on the background of her painting from dawn until Feyre came in for him to work on her portrait.

Azriel woke with a start as the horse neighed, looking around for Elain. Sometime during the journey, she had moved to the bench on his side of the carriage and was reading a book.

“You looked uncomfortable and were dead asleep, so I moved. You’ve been snoring on my shoulder for most of the ride,” Elain said without even looking up. She opened the curtain, looking outside. “Anyhow, here we are.”

Maybe Azriel should have brought his sketchbook. Wildflowers and plants stretched as far as the eye could see, in every shade and color he could mix.

Elain led the way through the field easily. It was almost like the flowers bent out of her way when she came. While Azriel got smacked in the chest with them as he followed and all the stems with thorns seemed to love him.

By the time they reached a tree in the middle of the meadow, Azriel was swearing every time another thorn stabbed him. Elain didn’t have a scratch on her. Her guards burst out of the plants a few moments after, looking just as harried as Azriel. They set down her basket before going back to wait by the carriage, more than happy to get out of the meadow.

He was about to open it to see what was inside when Elain slapped his hand out of the way. “Ow,” he muttered.

“Come on, get up. The flowers you need are this way.” Elain tugged at his arm but he was too heavy for her to move. When he didn’t move, she groaned and vanished into the flowers, returning holding a spider in her hands.

Azriel yelped, scrambling to his feet and staying as far away from the spider as he could. He hated spiders.

Elain giggled. “Awww, are you afraid of a little spider? Az, he’s harmless.”

Pointing at her hand, Azriel growled, “That _thing_ in your hand is not harmless. It would murder me in my sleep if it had the chance.”

With an exasperated sigh, Elain returned the spider to his home. Then she dragged him to where the flowers he needed were, helping him dig them up to transplant.

They sat in the shade of the tree, the contents of the basket finally revealed. Fresh bread, apples, and cheese. And of course, wine. Azriel’s stomach rumbled and Elain snorted a laugh. While he ate, she wove matching flower crowns and set one on his head.

Azriel glowered, sitting absolutely still until she would take it off because he was sure there was a spider on it. Elain laughed so much she was wheezing and her eyes watered. She took a piece of blank paper from the basket, her hands shaking as she drew him because she couldn’t stop laughing.

The portrait was atrocious. But she got the idea across.

If Cassian ever found this, Azriel was never going to live it down.

But in the moment, he didn’t care.


	6. Five

Feyre rushed to the livery gate when she heard Nesta had returned. Matthias stood at her sister’s side, their heads bowed together as they talked quietly about something. Then he left, nodding to Feyre.

One of Nesta’s personal guards handed her a note then headed off. Nesta read it, then scowled and swore.

Feyre meant to scare her older sister, but Rosa came charging in babbling Nesta’s name, ruining it. The anger on her sister’s face vanished in an instant as she crouched to pick up Rosa.

“Well well well, if it isn’t the little monster,” Nesta cooed, poking Rosa’s nose. Rosa giggled and squealed as Nesta tickled her.

Feyre watched with a smile. “How was your trip?” she asked. “Did you bring back any wine?”

Nesta handed Rosa back to Feyre, replying, “Fine. I’ll see you at dinner.” Then she kissed Feyre’s cheek, striding off.

Blinking in confusion, Feyre just stood there. She knew Nesta was resentful of the fact that Feyre was their father’s favorite. But her older sister wasn’t normally this cold. Nesta had been acting strangely after they found out their father died. Maybe she really thought their father had been poisoned and was investigating, even though their mother told her not to.

She thought nothing more on the matter and instead decided to ponder it later, heading to the studio for Azriel to work on her portrait.

* * *

Nesta was thankful the length of her cloak hid the fact she was still dressed in men’s clothing. The note from her guard, the one she asked to discreetly watch the apothecary’s shop, burned a hole in her pocket as she snuck up to her room to change before dinner.

Unless she wanted to wait another week to present her evidence to the Priori, she would have to go tomorrow morning and hope for the best.

The next morning, Nesta donned her best dress and pinned up her hair. A drunken man had once told her that her eyes glowed in contrast with the deep blue of her skirts. Elain said Nesta looked like a goddess with the blues against her pale skin. The sapphire that hung from a gold chain woven into her hair rested on her forehead. Matching earrings dangled from her ears. Nesta held her head up high, realising she looked like a queen ready to hold court as she admired her reflection.

She strolled arm in arm with Lucien to the plaza, where he dropped her off at the temple before heading off to greet the other men for the Priori meeting. The city bells rang on the hour and she heard the great wooden doors slam shut. Nesta sat down inside the temple, reading the novel she brought with her until she felt enough time passed.

Only one of her guards had accompanied her this morning. She had always liked Antonio because he simply walked by her side, chatted, and didn’t try to stop her from doing reckless things. Antonio had also grown up with her. His father was one of the old guards and his mother worked in the kitchens.

Her other guards treated her like she was porcelain.

As they stopped outside the council building, Antonio sighed disapprovingly. The guards manning the doors didn’t pay her any notice, thinking she was simply another wife waiting for her husband. At least until she started up the steps.

Then one held out his hand, telling her to stop. “Women are not allowed in Priori meetings, signorina. Please step back.”

Nesta didn’t care.

“Signorina. I’m sorry, but you must step back. You are not allowed inside.” The guards reached for her, only to be met with Antonio. The same guard that spoke before now said, “Signor, please escort her home.”

“Let her in,” Antonio told them, his voice low with an implied threat.

“I’m sorry, signor. We cannot.”

Nodding to Nesta, Antonio shouldered past the guards and pushed the doors wide open. They protested as Nesta strolled inside, her eyes needing a few seconds to adjust to the change in lighting.

Lord Soldato stared angrily at a paper on the table in front of him. His son sat behind him, looking amused at seeing Nesta barge in. On the other side of the room, Lucien looked like he wanted to strangle her. 

“Signoria, women are prevented from attending Priori meetings,” one of the council heads robed in red announced, the debate stopping immediately. “Guards, escort her out.”

* * *

Cassian didn’t like Priori meetings, to put it nicely. He would much rather stab himself in the eye than listen to men bicker about taxes. But as Lord Soldato’s only son, he was expected to attend.

This meeting started off like any other. Lucien Vanserra, the foxy bastard, sat in Lorenzo Archeron’s seat and thanked everyone for their condolences. Then the Priori heads brought up the items on today’s agenda.

Now was the time when Cassian could zone out. He almost dozed off a few times, prevented every time by the son of another city head nudging his elbow. The boy thought he was doing a good deed, keeping Cassian awake. 

“Gods, please let this fucking meeting be over soon,” Cassian muttered under his breath.

Then he heard a commotion outside the closed doors. Guards shouted at someone, denying them entrance. But the doors burst open anyway, the silhouette of a woman standing in the entrance.

“Signoria, women are prevented from attending Priori meetings,” one of the heads announced, debate stopping immediately. “Guards, escort her out.”

The woman shook the guards off, striding into the council chamber like she owned it. Of course it would be Nesta Archeron. Lucien looked shocked and appalled. The other council members murmured their outrage to one another.

Huffing a low laugh, Cassian leaned back in his chair. _This should be good,_ he thought.

Lucien stood, taking hold of Nesta’s elbow and trying to lead her out. He whispered something in her ear and gestured toward the doors. Instead, she crossed her arms and glared at him.

“Signor Vanserra, can you explain why Signorina Archeron barged in here, even though she knows the rules?” the same man from before asked. Lucien shook his head, sitting back down. “Unacceptable. Get her out of here.”

Guards closed on her when she straightened, staring directly at where Cassian and his father were seated. “My father didn’t die of natural causes. He was poisoned,” she declared. “By Lord Soldato’s man.”

A chill raced down Cassian’s spine.

Everyone in the room stared at her like she had three heads. The guards stopped in their tracks, waved off to their posts.

The heads of the Priori talked quietly amongst each other. Then the oldest one stood, waving her forward and saying, “These are unusual circumstances, but of respect for your father, we shall hear you out.”

Nesta bowed her head, thanking them silently. Taking a small plant out of a pouch no one noticed on her waist until now, she held it up for all to see. “You know what this is, yes?” Most men nodded. “Black nightshade. If ground into a fine enough powder, a pinch in a glass of wine can kill a man. Once it gets into your system, paralysis begins. You can’t breathe, because your lungs have stopped working due to a lack of oxygen to both the heart and the brain. Your heartbeat is irregular because your body is trying to send oxygenated blood to where it’s needed most but blood flow to most of your body has ceased. The muscles in your throat close up and you die a very horrible death of suffocation.”

Cassian saw his father’s spine stiffen the slightest bit.

Nesta charged ahead. “In very small doses, it enhances a woman’s beauty. And here, in the city of Velaris, there is only one apothecary to buy black nightshade from. The shopkeeper was found floating facedown in the river two days ago, stabbed in the heart.

“Before my father’s funeral, I visited the woman and asked if she had sold any nightshade to anyone strange recently. She had. Even had the receipt of his order, signed by Tomas Mandray himself. Lord Brutus Soldato’s third-in-command, a snake and a coward who prefers to watch you die while sipping wine rather than face to face with a sword in hand.”

Enraged, Lord Soldato shoved his chair back and roared at the Priori heads to have her silenced, claiming she spouted lies.

“Sit down, Soldato. And calm yourself. We would like to hear her out,” the old man told him, his voice deathly calm. He sat, but Cassian knew from the tension in his father’s shoulders that he would not be returning home today unless he wanted to be beaten within an inch of his life. “Please continue, signorina.”

Nesta’s eyes met Cassian’s then flicked away, like he was just as guilty as his father and she couldn’t stomach looking him. From her pouch, she pulled two pieces of folded paper.

“I traveled to my father’s vineyard and in the ledger of short-term workers, found a Signor Maglio working the week of my father’s death. The handwriting on both the receipt and in the ledger match exactly.

“Before the Priori, I would like to accuse Lord Brutus Soldato and Signor Tomas Mandray of the murder of my father, Lorenzo Archeron. Thank you, signors,” Nesta finished, curtseying to the Priori heads.

Cassian bit down his dark laugh, seeing everyone furiously glancing between his father and the woman who accused him of murdering one of Velaris’s beloved leaders. Nesta Archeron had balls, he had to give her that.

* * *

Rhys heard the whispers sweeping through the city when he docked his boat after a long day of catching nothing.

_Nesta Archeron accused Lord Soldato and Tomas Mandray of poisoning her father. Barged into the Priori this morning to do it, too._

Heading for the tavern Cassian frequented, Rhys heard the same sentence uttered over and over by the inhabitants of Velaris. Cassian was sitting at a table, hunched over a tankard of ale while Azriel wiped the blood from his face. His friend’s left eye was already swollen shut and beginning to bruise.

“That bastard didn’t even wait for most of them to clear out,” Rhys heard Cassian saying as he walked up. “Just fucking slammed my head into the stone column the second I walked into the compound. Tomas was there, along with Devlon. Mandray fucking laughed as my father choked me until I collapsed on the ground. Then kicked me in the chest and stomach until I blacked out.” Cassian lifted his shirt to show them the colorful bruises covering one side of his ribs. “I woke up laying in the gutter outside the compound.”

Rhys swore, ordering another round, but this time wine instead of ale. Azriel frowned at Cassian, who drank the entire bottle without stopping then winced as he took a deep breath.

“Cassian, you’re staying with me in my studio for the next few days,” Azriel commanded. “Your father won’t dare come after you there. And you’re going to see the doctor in the square. At least three of your ribs are broken.”

Cassian grumbled a very half-hearted “Fuck off” to Azriel before his eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out. Swearing, Rhys and Azriel lifted him to his feet and each threw one of his arms around their shoulders. Then they half-dragged, half-carried their friend to Matthias.

Thankfully, Matthias wasn’t busy. After they laid Cassian down on the table, Rhys pulled Cassian’s shirt off and was pushed out of the way by Matthias. He prodded Cassian’s ribs, making notes in a journal before inspecting him for further injuries.

Azriel headed back to the Archeron compound, promising to return later. Rhys waited for Matthias to be finished, sitting on the ground and closing his eyes. In the darkness, he silently pointed out planets and constellations to calm his racing heart.

“Rhysand?” Rhys didn’t realise he had dozed off until Matthias offered him a hand and lifted him to his feet. The doctor looked grim. “I know you’re not going to tell me, but this was his father, wasn’t it? Anyhow, there are no signs of internal bleeding or a collapsed lung right now, which is good. But on the other hand, four of his ribs are broken and three are fractured. I still want to keep him here for at least another day to make sure there really is no internal bleeding. After that, is there someplace safe he can go?”

With sigh, Rhys shook his head. “Azriel offered for him to stay in his studio, but I don’t think that would go over well with the Archerons. He could stay with me, but his father knows where I moor the boat every night.”

Matthias pursed his lips. “Thank you. You may stay here tonight with him. There’s a staircase in the back; I live upstairs. If you need anything or something doesn’t feel right, come get me immediately,” he said, gesturing to where the staircase was.


	7. Six

The sound of her mother screaming at Nesta filled the halls near the study. Elain was just trying to get to the garden to escape.

By now, everyone in Velaris knew. Nesta accused Lord Soldato and Tomas Mandray of poisoning their father.

Many supported Nesta’s accusation, even though she was a woman. Their love for Lorenzo Archeron eclipsed their apprehension to a woman accusing two powerful men of murder.

Elain had also heard rumours of the Soldatos preparing for war. His army of mercenary soldiers outside the gate rallied behind him, while the people of Velaris supported the Archerons. She had no wish to see blood run in city streets and innocents dead over something that could be settled family to family.

As a door slammed, Elain winced. Bumping into Azriel in the hall, she saw just how harried he was. Dark circles bloomed under his hazel eyes. His eyebrows seemed to be permanently furrowed. It had only been two days since the accusation, but Elain could tell something was bothering the gentle artist.

Even as he protested, Elain dragged him along to the garden and sat him down on a stone bench hidden by a small grove of lemon trees. “Azriel, tell me what’s wrong,” Elain mumurmed, taking his scarred hands in hers. “And don’t you dare say nothing. I am not dumb.”

His shoulders sank as he sighed heavily. “Amore, I don’t want to upset you. This story does not have a happy ending,” he said.

Elain tried to ignore the way her heart swelled at his pet name for her. “Tell me anyway. I want to help, if I can,” she told him, squeezing his hands and hoping it was reassuring.

“Cassian is Lord Soldato’s bastard son. His father is an abusive man. Even though Cass had nothing to do with what Nesta accused the lord of, he took his anger out on my friend.” Azriel’s voice hardened, but he continued. “Now he’s laying on a bed at the doctor’s home in the square with four broken and three cracked ribs, a black eye, and hasn’t woken up since he passed out at the tavern. Elain, Cassianーhe’s my brother. He’s family.”

A tear rolled down Azriel’s cheek.

“Oh, fuck ettiquite,” Elain grumbled, wrapping her arms around Azriel and holding him tight. He stiffened, but his arms encircled her and held her close as he buried his nose in the crook of her neck.

“Thank you,” he breathed. Elain turned her head to press her lips to his cheek, tasting the salt lingering from his tears.

* * *

After her mother screaming at her for being a fucking reckless imbecile by accusing Lord Soldato and Tomas Mandray at the Priori meeting, Nesta needed to breathe without the complex feeling like it was closing in around her.

Antonio looked the other way as Nesta slipped out the small staff gate hidden in an alley, but she knew he was following her. The heavy cloak was stifling and hot, and the walk to Matthias’s house felt like a thousand years. But he was one of the few people who knew about this entire ordeal from the start and that she could talk to about it.

Stepping into the cool darkness, she threw back her hood and sighed with a smile. Matthias always kept incense burning during the day to hide unpleasant scents.

He typically greeted her as soon as she walked in the door. Today he didn’t.

That was odd.

Nesta padded further into the room, unsheathing her dagger. A white sheet hung from a bar, cordoning off part of the bottom floor. Muffled voices came from behind it. Cautiously, she sheathed her dagger and slipped closer, recognizing the doctor’s voice.

Then it was thrown back roughly, the cloth nearly tearing. Rhysand Campagna stormed out, shouldering Nesta on his way out. With a scoff, she was about to tell him off when she saw a man laying on one of the beds, his chest bare but covered in purple and yellow bruises and elaborate whorls of black ink. One of his eyes was swollen shut, but she would recognize his face anywhere.

Cassian Soldato. Son of the man who ordered her father killed.

Matthias yanked Nesta back just as she was about to yell at Cassian. “He is not to blame for your father’s death, signorina. Leave him be. The poor boy suffers at the hands of his father just as much as you do,” the doctor told Nesta, his voice resigned.

“Those bruises are fromー” Nesta whispered in disbelief, her hand over her mouth.

“Yes. He hasn’t opened his eyes in two days. I had hoped there was no internal bleeding, but at this point he seems to be inching closer to death every hour.”

True to Matthias’s word, Cassian’s face was pale, his lips chapped. His chest rose and fell faintly, sweat beading on his forehead. There was a nastly looking gash on his left temple.

If Nesta had been born a boy, she would have been a doctor rather than a banker. In her youth, she had studiously spent hours poring over anatomical sketches of the human body and reading thick tomes she borrowed from the library of Velaris. Her father encouraged all of his daughters to study a topic of their choice. Nesta’s was medicine and anatomy, Elain’s was botany, and Feyre’s was the arts.

“May I?” Nesta asked nervously. “I remember reading somewhere that if there was internal bleeding in the abdomen, there would be bruising around the navel and stomachーalthough that doesn’t do much good in his case, the patient could be bleeding from other places, or there would be blood in the urine. All of the typical signs we cannot observe because he’s not awake or coherent.”

“Signorina, your motherー”

“My mother can go to hell,” Nesta spat. “She would have me sit locked in my room until the threat dies down or until she can marry me off to some lord in a faraway city.”

The doctor’s sigh was one of disappointment. “I suppose,” he grumbled.

Nesta was thankful for the distraction from her own thoughts the younger Soldato’s injuries provided. Taking his wrist in her hands, she pressed two fingers to his radial artery to measure his pulse. It was mostly normal, just a little slow, except for the half-second it raced then slowed.

She conducted her observations in a neat, quiet manner, making mental notes as she went along. There was no blood in his mouth or ears; the other locations she could not check because it would be indecent. The only bruising on his chest and abdomen was around his ribs. And she couldn’t exactly check on the last one, that was entirely up to Matthias.

His bare chest was warm as she laid her head above his heart, listening to his heart beat steadily. His breathing was steady. Besides the bruising and broken ribs, he was perfectly healthy. It made no sense.

Nesta turned to speak to Matthias when she heard coughing. Cassian’s laugh was weak as he chuckled, “Can’t keep your hands off me, signorina?” Then he dissolved into a coughing fit, Nesta and Matthias helping him sit upright.

* * *

“Rosa! Rosa! No, that’s Mama’s office!” Feyre shouted quietly. Groaning, she followed her daughter into her mother’s office. Rosa had managed to climb up onto the chair was about to knock over the ink well before Feyre scooped her up, averting the imminent danger.

Then she saw the letter sitting on the desk. The ink was still drying. Feyre couldn’t help but read it.

_Lord Soldato, I would like to apologise for my daughter’s brash actions. If possible, let us come to an agreement that does not end in war between our two families. With regards, Madonna Alessandra Archeron._

Feyre gasped. She wasn’t meant to see this. Her mother would be returning soon to seal the letter and hand it off to a messenger.

Rosa babbled in Feyre’s arms, reaching for the pot of ink.

Voices echoed from down the hall: her mother’s and Lucien’s. With a silent curse, Feyre slipped out of her mother’s office and headed for the library.

Sitting down in the plush chair, Feyre settled Rosa in her lap and began reading to her from the book of faerie tales her father had always read to her and her sisters. The stories were a comfort, and hours passed as Feyre read to her daughter.

A maid brought wine for Feyre and sweet pastries for both her and Rosa, then left just as silently as she came. Another came in later to light the fire in the hearth as well as the lamps throughout the room.

Feyre’s neck ached and she squinted. Morning sunlight streamed through the window, the fire nothing but smoldering embers. With a yawn, she stretched, being careful not to jostle her fast-asleep daughter. Even now, Rosa’s resemblance to Rhys made her long for him.

Her long, dark lashes matched with the dark waves of her hair. She even shared her father’s olive skin, his darker from years in the sun. The only thing little Rosa inherited from her mother was the freckles and the blinding blue eyes that turned stormy when she threw a tantrum.

Feyre missed Rhysand. He was the love of her life. He was supposed to be her husband. They were supposed to raise Rosa together.

Instead, she stayed inside the compound and away from all prying eyes. Fell asleep in the library reading her daughter stories of a life she wished she could have. If her mother had her way, Feyre and Rhys would never see each other again for the rest of their lives.

* * *

Cassian had been drowning in a sea of darkness. Distantly, he heard the murky voices of Rhys, Azriel, and the doctor. They thought he was dying.

Then there was a different voice. Feminine and soft, yet strong. Curious, yet cautious.

He followed it upwards, light finally shining through the dark.

The first thing he felt was a head on his chest. And a hand splayed across his stomach. Whoever this was, they had calluses. The pressure intensified as the weight left his chest.

Cassian couldn’t stop his cough. Opening his good eye, he was blinded by what weak sunlight there was. Her hand still rested on his chest. His laugh was weak as he chuckled, “Can’t keep your hands off me, signorina?”

Nesta’s head whipped around as she glared, the steel in her eyes slicing him to ribbons. He coughed, wincing every time the air left his lungs. Both she and the doctor helped Cassian sit upright and sip from a cup full of water once he stopped coughing.

“Where’s Az?” he ground out, his voice gravelly from days of not using it. “And Rhys?”

She pulled the doctor away, speaking to him in hushed tones. Then she left with a swish of her skirts over the doorstep and out onto the street. Matthias gave Cassian more to drink along with a little bit of food then had him stretch his arms over his head.

Cassian hissed in pain as the doctor wrapped strips of white cloth around his ribs to keep them in place while they healed.

“Whaーwhat was she doing when I woke up?” Cassian asked, genuinely curious as to why her head had been on his chest.

“Signorina Archeron was examining you for signs of internal bleeding,” the doctor said. When Cassian glanced down with mild alarm, Matthias sighed and shook his head. “She went no further than your upper body. Although she may despise your family, she will not disrespect a patient’s privacy.”

This time, the doctor’s sigh was of disappointment. “If Nesta Archeron had been born a boy, she would have been the best doctor Velaris has ever seen. But alas, she was not.” Matthias’s pale green eyes focused on Cassian. “If you are ever this seriously injured again, your best chance of survival is Signorina Archeron.”


	8. Seven

As Madonna Archeron’s carriage entered the compound, Lord Soldato stood at ease with Devlon behind him to his right. A terrified page boy had delivered her letter a week ago and they corresponded in secrecy until they arranged a meeting to discuss possible solutions.

“Madonna,” Lord Soldato bowed, kissing the golden signet ring on her left hand.

“Lord Soldato,” the head of the Archeron family replied in greeting. “Hello, Devlon. Where’s Mandray? I expected him to be here.”

The elder Soldato pushed down the rage, instead smiling pleasantly. “Tomas if off inquiring whether or not the city who wants to hire our services is good for the gold. He’ll be back in the city by week’s end. This way, madonna.”

She refused the wine his servant offered, sitting down across from him on the other side of the desk. This was no pleasure visit, this was business. “I believe my daughter had her reasons,” the woman began, “and that she knew exactly what she was doing.”

Lord Soldato grit his teeth, his knuckles going white, but he made no move to stop her.

“Nesta would not have done that unless she was absolutely sure you were behind it. May I ask, were you truly behind my husband’s death?” No reply from him. “As I expected. Although you can tell your man to clean up his tracks better next time. I suspect there won’t be a next time, though, seeing as the majority of the city wants to see both you and Mandray wriggling on the end of a rope.”

“Madonnaー” She held up her hand, silencing him.

“I propose you dispose of Mandray quietly, or hand him over to the Priori with a full confession. Your son, Cassian. He is of the marrying age, is he not?” Soldato nodded. “Good. He shall marry my eldest to ensure peace between our families. You can escape the end of a rope if you’re family, so long as once they are married you only return to Velaris twice a year, at most.

“Nesta and I share the same sentiments towards you and your son, but the safety of the citizens of Velaris comes before our feelings every single day. Is that acceptable, Lord Soldato?” Head held high, she sneered his title.

Lord Soldato stood, his chair scraping across the floor. He resisted the urge to curl his lip and insult her, knowing deep down that he would only be on the losing end if he started a war with the Archerons. They had an entire city at their backs, he had only his mercenary army outside the city gates.

“It is acceptable. Now, let us drink to seal the agreement.” He waved a hand, their wine glasses filled by silent servants. She tried to refuse. The lord’s laugh was humourless. “Madonna, I would not poison my own wine. I do not wish for death sooner than it must come.”

With a skeptical frown, she drank. And with that, peace was settled. A fragile one, but peace nonetheless.

* * *

It took two weeks before Cassian could take a deep breath without feeling dizzy from the pain. That time was spent in Mother Luna’s temple, his only visitors being the doctor and his friends. The third he was given a very unhappy approval from Matthias that he was allowed to actively move again.

Signorina Archeron never stopped by again, but he knew from Azriel that she had asked how he was healing. Her younger sister, Elain, accompanied his friend a few times, smuggling Cassian sweets. She kept him updated with what was happening in the city, seeing as he wasn’t allowed to go outside yet.

“Ellie!” Cassian exclaimed, picking the middle Archeron up and spinning her around. His side ached, but it was manageable. Azriel shook his head behind her as he leaned on the doorway. “Steal any more of those raspberry and lemon cakes you brought last week?”

Elain’s smile faded just as quickly as it came.

Cassian looked at Azriel, confused. His friend stared down at his boots. “What aren’t you telling me?” he demanded.

Azriel sighed heavily, meeting Cassian’s gaze. “Your father came to me asking to bring you to the Archeron complex tomorrow. We don’t know what for, but I’m guessing it has something to do with a peace treaty.

“He’s out of the city for the rest of the day, so we can go fetch you a change of clothing for tomorrow. Then you can stay in my studio overnight.”

Elain tugged at the long unruly waves of Cassian’s hair. “And do something with this mess,” she muttered. “You need to shave, as well.”

“My hair is off-limits,” Cassian growled.

Elain and Azriel just looked at each other before sighing and dragging Cassian out to the waiting carriage that would take them to the Soldato compound then to the Archeron complex.

Cassian was led up to Azriel’s bedroom, where a tub full of steaming hot water was waiting for him. The water was cloudy and smelled like lavender. When he frowned in confusion at his friend, Azriel just shrugged. He didn’t know either.

Then Elain came bustling in with a stack of clothing on top of a towel in her arms. “Nesta said the warmth and the lavender bath salts will relax your muscles,” she said in response to their confusion. “Now disrobe and get in that bath before it goes cold. You need a lot of work to look presentable before tomorrow.”

Sputtering, Cassian glanced between Elain moving the footstool from the foot of Azriel’s bed and the steaming bath. “Shouldn’t you be leaving then?”

A snort of laughter. “I can always go get my sister to help.”

“No no, uh, that’s not necessary,” Cassian squeaked. The last thing he wanted was for Elain’s older sister to be in the room while he bathed. It was one thing for her to lay her head on his chest to listen to his heart as a doctor but quite another to be in the same room as he bathed. He quickly undressed and slipped into the hot water, silently glad the bath salts made the water murky.

Elain hummed as she washed his hair, clucking like a mother hen at how often she found a knot and had to comb it out. Then she trimmed the ends so they brushed his shoulders; Cassian fought her the entire time and yowled like a wet cat when she slapped him with the comb. Once she finished, she and Azriel left so Cassian could wash himself in peace. The bar of soap she left smelled heavenly, leaving him feeling cleaner than he had in weeks.

He stood, letting the water run off before wrapping the towel Elain left around his waist and drying off with the second. Then he slipped into the black robe and loose linen pants that had been left on the bed. There was a mirror on Azriel’s wall by the door and Cassian looked at himself.

The bruises had vanished, although the scars from the countless times earlier remained. The tip of a knife pressed into his chest above his heart by Tomas a few years earlier, his father’s third claiming it was an accident. Scars from Devlon and his father’s brutal training regime snaked across his chest and back. 

He was about to slam his fist into the reflection when the door opened and none less than Nesta Archeron waltzed in, a bundle of clean white cloth in her hands.

“Please don’t break the mirror. Mother knows the poor servants already suffer enough with Rosa running around underfoot,” Nesta said without even looking at him. “Now, robe off and sit down.”

“Yes, doctor.” He received a withering glare in response.

Nesta checked to see if his ribs were healing properly then forced him to do breathing exercises. Cassian tried to mask the pain, but he knew she saw straight through it.

“Arms up,” she ordered. He obeyed, closing his eyes. He hated this part. “Breathe, Cassian. It hurts less if you keep breathing.”

His eyes snapped open. She had just called him by his first name. Then he swore, gritting his teeth as she wrapped the cloth tightly around his ribs.

“Repeat those breathing exercises throughout the day for the next fortnight. They will hurt in the beginning, but they will help your ribs heal properly,” she said, opening the door to leave.

“Thank you,” Cassian breathed, still adjusting to how tight she wrapped the cloth. “Truly.” She stilled for a moment, then walked out the door, shutting it quietly behind her.

* * *

Rhys wanted to see Cassian one last time before his friend’s freedom ended tomorrow. None of them knew what was happening, only that it would either bring peace or war to Velaris. He hoped for the former.

Azriel snuck Rhys in through the alley gate, telling the guard he needed an assistant to help him mix paint and stretch canvasses. The guard was suspicious, but allowed them to pass. Then Elain stepped out of the shadows and handed Rhys a covered plate with Cassian’s dinner, leading the way to Azriel’s room.

It was hard for Rhys to not feel giddy with excitement. Right now, he was closer to Feyre than he had been in the past two years. His chances of seeing her were exponentially higher than in the city.

“I will be in the library if you need anything. Send Azriel, not Rhys,” Elain said once they stopped outside a closed door. Then with a swish of her skirts she was heading down the hall.

Rhys noticed Azriel staring after her and elbowed his friend’s side with a laugh as he opened the door. Cassian was lying on the bed, his head hanging upside down off the edge as he read a book. He only wore a robe and a pair of linen pants.

Flipping over when he smelled food, Cassian hugged Rhys. Rhys made sure not to squeeze too tightly, seeing the white cloth wrappings around his chest.

“How did you get in? I thought Rhys was permanently banned from entering,” Cassian asked.

Azriel’s smile was wicked. “Sorcery, Cass. I won’t reveal my secrets to you.”

Cassian’s deep laugh filled the room, lightening the somber mood. Until he started coughing and wincing in pain when he couldn’t stop. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the bedpost, his free hand held against his ribs.

Azriel grabbed Rhys’s shoulders, forcing him to meet his friend’s amber gaze. “Stay here. Whatever happens, do not leave this room. I’ll be back.” Then Azriel rushed off, returning a few minutes later with one very annoyed Nesta Archeron.

She saw Rhys and snarled, prepared to flay him alive. Rhys had no idea what he had ever done to herーbesides shoving her into the Sidra when they were youngーto warrant her anger. All of her anger faded in the blink of an eye and she just glanced at him with disgust and curled her lip. That terrified Rhys more than her anger.

“What did you do to him?” she questioned with an annoyed sigh. Azriel told her he just laughed, that was it. Then he started coughing.

Nesta hissed, “Mother fucking help me,” before unwrapping the cloth that was wrapped around his chest. Cassian fell back onto the bed, his chest heaving as he took quick, shallow breaths.

Glancing at Azriel, Rhys saw he was just watching. Nothing about this seemed to faze him. Nesta Archeron, the self-declared sworn enemy of Cassian Soldato, was practically straddling him with her skirts hiked up and her hands flat on his bare chest.

“Breathe, you fucking bastard,” she snarled. Cassian snarled something right back at her without missing a beat.

Frustrated and confused, Rhys yanked open the door. “I’m going to the library,” he spat. Azriel glared but didn’t try to stop him, seeing as it would only make Rhys angrier. 

Rhys stalked through the halls, following a path ingrained in his mind. Before he knew it, he was standing outside Feyre’s door. He shook his head, telling himself to let it go. She was probably doing fine without him.

He was halfway down the hall when he heard a voice that broke his heart.

* * *

“Rhys?” Feyre asked, not quite believing that he was walking down the hall in the other direction. When he turned around, his violet eyes wide in the candlelight, Feyre sobbed and ran to him. She crashed into him and he grunted, falling back a few steps.

Then he hugged her tight, his nose buried in her neck. “I missed you, Feyre darling,” he choked out, trying not to cry. Feyre sniffed as she stepped back, tears of happiness streaming down her cheeks. Rhys thumbed them away, his soft smile making her heart ache.

He was still the most beautiful man she had ever seen, if not more so now. His nose was covered in dark freckles from the sun, his hair still inky black and iridescent like a crow’s wings.

“What happened?” he asked, cupping her face in his hands.

Feyre opened her mouth to answer when she heard her door creak open. She yanked Rhys into the shadows of a hallway all too familiar for both of them, feeling every inch of her body pressed against his.

“Signorina Feyre?” the nursemaid called out. “I thought I heard her,” she grumbled to herself, shutting the door.

“Just like old times,” Feyre laughed quietly. Rhys echoed her, his hands tightening on her waist as his eyes flicked to her lips. Feyre fisted her hands in his black tunic, glancing up at him beneath her lashes.

Her eyes fluttered shut as they closed the distance between them. She could feel his sharp intake of breath before his lips met hers. Feyre slid her hands into his hair, smiling against his lips as his hand slid down to rest over the curve of her ass.

That was the moment when she remembered she was in nothing but her nightgown, a robe loosely tied closed at her waist. But it quickly faded away as Rhys slid his leg between hers, kissing her harder. Feyre gasped as his mouth left hers to trail down her throat, his lips brushing over the hollow between her collarbones.

Rosa throwing a tantrum in Feyre’s bedroom made them break apart. Feyre kissed him one last time, murmuring, “I’m so sorry, I have to go.”

Rhys grabbed her wrist before she could leave. “When will I see you again?”

“I don’t know. Ti amo, Rhys.”

Then his lips met hers and Feyre looped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. She forced herself to pull away, even as her heart was wrenched in two.

He was here. He was real. And she never wanted to leave him arms.

“Feyre,” he called out in a whisper, “I’ll never stop loving you.”

Feyre slipped inside her room, willing her heart to stay steady as she relieved the anxious nursemaid and coaxed Rosa that it was time for bed.

* * *

As Nesta dressed the next morning, she chose red. If she had to kill someone, it would be easier to hide the stain. She hoped she wouldn’t have to, but it wouldn’t be her first time greeting death. Nor her last.

A servant handed her a glass of wine as she stepped into the stately drawing room her mother only used for important guests. Elain and Feyre stood by the balcony doors, chatting quietly. Cassian sat on the low sofa, sipping from a glass of wine. Nesta could tell he was in pain, from the way he moved carefully and struggled to keep his expression blank.

Lord Soldato sneered when Nesta walked in, the last to arrive. He stood by the massive fireplace, a hand on the sword at his side. Nesta opened her mouth to fire off a retort, but her mother stood, intervening at the last second.

“Thank you for coming,” her mother said, glaring at Nesta with a warning to keep her mouth shut. “In light of the recent accusations against Lord Soldato and Tomas Mandray, we have decided the best way to ensure peace and avoid a senseless war is to join our families in marriage.”

Nesta had a feeling she knew what was coming. On the other side of the room, the blood drained from Cassian’s face.

“Nesta, you will be marrying Cassian in a month’s time when Lord Soldato returns from his campaign.”

She must not have heard her mother right. “What,” Nesta breathed. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be.

Roaring filled her ears as she saw the future she dreamed of crash and burn in front of her. No more secretly treating the citizens of Velaris who couldn’t afford to visit a doctor or reading to the young girls and boys in the streets. No more wielding a sword. As his wife, she would be expected to bear him children and that was about it. Any work she did for the bank would be from the shadows. The great Nesta Archeron would be reduced to nothing less than Lady Cassian Soldato the second he slid a ring onto her finger.

Lord Soldato replied for her mother, his lip curling up as he snarled, “You’re marrying my son, you bitch. I pity the poor boy.”

Before the occupants of the room could blink, Nesta slammed the mercenary lord against the mantle of the fireplace, the dagger she always kept sheathed on her thigh pressed up against his throat, the razor-sharp edge drawing blood. “Say that again,” she growled.

The lord only laughed, his eyes cold and merciless. “She’s fiery. It’s too bad she’s marrying you, boy. I would like to have her fire warming my bed.”

Nesta seethed. Maybe it was a good thing she decided to wear red this morning. Faintly, she heard her mother and sisters screaming at her as she took the tip of her dagger and dragged it down Lord Soldato’s face. For good measure, she sliced open the lord’s thigh, knowing exactly where his femoral artery was and taking care to avoid it. Blood covered her hands, dripping off of her fingers.

He was too stunned to move, having thought she was nothing more than a dog who barked but never bit. He thought wrong.

Poking the tip of her dagger into his chest, Nesta held her head high, rolling her shoulders back. “I hope you die a long and painful death,” she spat. She leaned close, whispering in his ear, “I pray the last thing you see is my pretty face standing above you. As I send you to hell.”

Wiping her blade clean on his doublet, Nesta smirked before turning on her heel and walking out of the room. She couldn’t mistake the lord roaring her name from the drawing room. He couldn’t chase after her either, she made sure of that.

The elation only lasted so long. Then her stomach turned and she gagged. Rushing into the stables, Nesta fell to her knees and vomited until her stomach was empty. Tempest butted her shoulder with her head, huffing out a breath of warm air that tickled her mistress’s neck.

Nesta’s hands shook as she washed the blood off, scrubbing until her hands were red and raw. Her vision blurred as her eyes burned with tears mourning the loss of her freedom.

Blood was no stranger to her, she was female after all. She had helped Matthias with a few emergency cesarean sections when the midwives had no other option, her hands slick with the mother’s blood. But for her to be the direct cause of the spilled blood, her motives malice and hatred instead of saving a life? It disgusted her.

Someone called her name, their footsteps echoing from the hallway. Nesta hurriedly wiped her tears away.

“There you are. Everyone’s looking for you.” His voice. The man who would be the death of her freedom. Her future husband. Fear strangled his voice as he said, “My father wants to kill you for that.”

Before Nesta could reply, Cassian took her hands in his, holding tight. “Nesta, you don’t understand. My mother gave him that scar through his eyebrow when she refused to marry him. She refused him, that was her only crime.” His voice shook. “He tortured her for days, and when she didn’t beg him for mercy, he gave her to his soldiers. They raped her, killed her, and left her body in a ditch.

“Compared to what he will do to you, that would be gentle.”

Nesta ripped her hands from Cassian’s, stumbling backward. She knew Lord Soldato was a dangerous man, but the true realisation of how dangerous an enemy she made hit her like a punch to the gut. Her stomach heaved and she felt like she might vomit again. Pressing her spine into the edge of Tempest’s stall, she slowly sank to the straw.

“What happens if I marry you?” Nesta questioned, staring blankly through the stone wall opposite her. “What then, Cassian?”

“Then we kill him, together. And secure peace for Velaris.”


	9. Eight

Azriel heard the screaming from his studio. Fearing the worst, he ran.

Elain sat in a pool of her skirts on the floor, sobbing. Feyre was just staring, a hand over her mouth, like she couldn’t process what had just happened. Their older sister was nowhere to be found. Madonna Archeron was yelling for someone to fetch the doctor.

Cassian stood, seeing Azriel. There was a gleam in his friend’s eyes. They both looked at Lord Soldato.

Blood gushed from his thigh, a growing pool of it on the floor under him. He was busy cinching the belt from his doublet above the wound, the movements efficient and practiced. Blood dripped from a long cut across his face, slicing through his eyebrow and down across his cheek.

Then the lord looked up, his face full of rage. His eyes landed on Cassian, flicking over Azriel like he was nothing.

“You will make that fucking bitch heel, or mark my words, I swear to the Mother I will fucking kill her. I do not care if she is going to be your wife, boy.” His voice was laced with a deathly promise. “Get Nesta fucking Archeron under control or I’ll treat worse than I did your mother.”

Azriel saw the leash Cassian held over his anger fraying. Faster than his friend could stand, Azriel had his hands on Cassian’s shoulders, holding him back.

“Leave,” Azriel murmured. “Get out of this room before you do something you can’t come back from. Find Nesta, because I’m guessing she was the cause of this. Don’t piss her off, Cass.”

Cassian glared at his father but stalked out of the room, nodding slightly to Azriel in thanks.

Azriel ignored Lord Soldato, striding over to help Elain to her feet. She wrapped her arms around him, burying her face into the front of his paint-stained apron. One word fell from her lips over and over again. His name.

“Where do you want to go?” Azriel whispered, rubbing soothing circles over the small of her back.

Elain glanced up at him, her caramel eyes lined with silver tears. “Studio, please.”

“Arms around my neck, Ellie,” he replied. She looped her arms around his neck and he counted down from three before lifting her into his arms. The skirts of her dress hung loose and it was a struggle not to trip over them as he stepped over the pool of blood.

Her mother glared as Azriel left with Elain in his arms, but made no move to stop them. She had a much larger problem bleeding on her fancy carpets.

Once inside the soft quiet of his studio, Azriel set Elain down. Even though she could stand perfectly fine on her own, she still clung to him. Her shoulders shook with muffled sobs, traumatized by what Nesta did and the lord’s promise to kill her. The elder Soldato deserved every mark Nesta left on him. Azriel hoped they scarred.

Guiding Elain to the low settee, he meant for her to sit down so he could retrieve the book of faerie tales she had been reminiscing over that day. He tried to stand up, but Elain held tightly onto his hand.

“Azriel, stayー” Her sad smile broke his heart. “ーplease.”

“Of course, amore.” Sitting down next to her, Azriel let her curl up next to him. He remained sitting upright while her head fell onto his shoulder, her fingers intertwining with his.

Silence settled between them, Elain mindlessly tracing his scars as Azriel watched her. He was still in awe of the fact that she didn’t find them hideous, wasn’t revolted by them. _Beautiful,_ she called them.

“What did he mean by ‘I’ll treat her worse than your mother?’” Elain whispered.

The last thing Azriel wanted to tell sweet, gentle Elain was the story of Cassian’s mother. But he knew if he didn’t, she would find out some other way. Taking a deep breath, Azriel told her.

To this day, he didn’t know if his own mother still lived or suffered a similar fate at the hands of his father. He hoped she escaped long ago.

Azriel knew Cassian would never go the route of his father. He told Elain as much, feeling her body sag with relief. Nesta was a powerful woman in a world dominated by men. She would claw her way to the top, damning the consequences and shoving men like Lord Soldato off the ladder on her way past. Azriel had no worries she would do just fine, but he feared for his brother in arms.

* * *

Elain stepped into Azriel’s studio, a golden glow filling the room. She wore nothing underneath her robe, his painting requiring her nude. To say she felt nervous was a gross understatement. No one besides her handmaidens had ever seen her completely naked.

Today he would sketch her in a variety of poses, needing to capture the curves and movement of her body before immortalizing her in paint.

He was arranging the low settee in a way that it sat exactly in the shaft of sunlight, covered with a charcoal gray cloth. The sleeves of his navy tunic were rolled up to his elbows, exposing the dark skin of his arms. The hem of his tunic was tucked into the waist of his black breeches. His hair seemed curlier than normal and Elain longed to run her hands through it.

When he finally stood and turned around, Elain noticed dark whorls across his chest through the open collar of his tunic. She hadn’t noticed she had been staring, trying to puzzle out what they were, until he chuckled.

“We snuck onto a ship when we were young. The captain found us halfway to Adriata and decided to make us members of his crew until he could bring us back to Velaris. All of the crew had the same markings, so naturally, we got them too,” Azriel explained. “Cass’s are the most extensive because he sailed around with them for about a year afterwards.”

He laughed, “I’m sure if you ask to see them, he will gladly show you.”

Elain couldn’t help but giggle, knowing Cassian well enough that he would. Thinking back to when she washed and cut his hair, she realised the tattoos must only be on their chests because she didn’t remember them.

Lucien waltzed into Azriel’s studio, a roll of pale pink silk under his arm. “Ellie, darling, I have come straight from the dressmaker with your silk. Let me just say, Amren did not want to give it to me. I practically had to fight her for it.”

He stopped, eyes flicking between Elain and Azriel. Both flushed, like they had been caught doing something they weren’t supposed to. Elain dreaded the words coming out of her friend’s mouth after he grinned that sly-fox grin.

“If you end up fucking, please drink the ginger tea, Elain. We don’t need another small version of an Archeron running around. It’s chaos already. But if you would like a third, you know where to find me.” With a wave and a wink after kissing Elain’s cheek, Lucien sauntered out of the room, closing the doors behind him with a flourish.

It was common knowledge in the Archeron complex that Lucien Vanserra had no preference when it came to partners. He was practically family, so none of them really cared who Lucien spent his nights with.

Elain burst out laughing, seeing Azriel’s confused face and hearing him mutter, “What the fuck just happened?”

“That’s just how Luce is. I probably should have warned you beforehand,” she replied. Handing the silk off to Azriel, she went to bask in the sunlight, closing her eyes and sighing happily. Without thinking, she let her robe slip off her shoulders, freeing her hair of the low bun it was in.

Azriel sucked in a breath behind her and she was about to turn around when he poked the tip of his brush into her cheek. “Stay there. Don’t move,” he ordered. Then came the sounds of charcoal scratching on paper. Paper rustled and she heard him murmur to himself, but she couldn’t quite understand it. Then, “You can turn around now.”

Elain spun around, bouncing over to see the sketch he held in his hands. He held it like it was the most precious thing in the world, reluctantly giving it to Elain to see. When she saw it, she gasped. Somehow, in only black and greys and white, he had managed to capture that ethereal glow and beauty the shaft of sunlight gave her. She felt like a goddess, he made her one.

Holding that feeling tight in her heart, Elain unrolled the pink silk. Then she untied her robe, letting it fall to the floor in a pool of fabric. She saw no reason to be self-conscious of her body in front of him.

Azriel swallowed, hard. His gaze dragged over her body slowly, like he was taking it all in and couldn’t bear to miss a single detail. Elain couldn’t help the blush that colored her face.

“May I?” he asked, stepping closer after she nodded. The tip of his finger traced the lines of her throat and the hollow in between her collarbones. His knuckles grazed the underside of her breasts, dragging lower to follow the swell of her hips.

“Bellissima, amore,” he whispered, his lips brushing the cartilage of her ear. Elain’s eyes fluttered shut, her mouth falling open in a silent gasp.

If this was heaven, Elain never wanted to leave. His lips, his hands, the way his touch left sparks in its wake. That whisper in her ear, the feeling of his hands on her waist. It was pure bliss.

Then his touch vanished, his touch reappearing on her arm as he stretched it out to follow the lines of muscle. The pads of his fingers trailed over her shoulder, down her shoulder blades and spine. She shivered.

Breathless, Elain wondered aloud, “Aren’t you supposed to beー”

“Shh. I’m working,” Azriel replied, his voice husky and deep. His tone coaxed to life something molten in her stomach, and she shifted so she could squeeze her thighs together.

Azriel gently tugged Elain backwards until her body was pressed flush up against him. His arms snaked around her, holding her tight. One hand rested flat against the soft swell of her stomach while the other brushed her hair off the side of her neck. Successful in that realm, Azriel moved his free hand down, pressing his lips to Elain’s neck as his palm lay flat against her ribs, the pad of his thumb brushing over her nipple.

She whimpered his name, feeling his cock harden against her. Azriel’s groan was low in her ear as she ground her ass against him.

Spinning in his arms, Elain tangled her fingers through his curls, loving the way he stared at her with slitted eyes. His pupils devoured the amber warmth, blown wide. She stood on her tiptoes to kiss each corner of his mouth, pulling back before she lost any resolve she had.

As much as it pained her, Elain unwound herself from his arms, striding over to sit on the settee. She didn’t bother covering herself with the silk, instead meeting the artist’s eyes with a challenge. “Draw me a goddess of pleasure,” Elain challenged him, her grin wicked.

Azriel’s chest rumbled with a low chuckle. Then he strode over, hovering over her body as she shifted to lay down underneath him. “Not today, amore.”

He said nothing more, instead leaning down to kiss her. The moan that escaped Elain as he rocked his hips against hers was purely sinful. Azriel tugged her knee over his hip, his cock straining in his breeches. The feeling of his clothing grated against Elain’s bare skin; she tugged at the hem of his tunic.

He stood, pulling it off with one swift motion. Slowly unlacing the ties of his breeches, he taunted Elain with a sly gleam in his eyes. Frustrated, Elain yanked him closer to her, accidentally making him trip on the edge of the cloth. She giggled as he fell, landing with a grunt.

With a playful growl, Azriel roughly pulled the sheet off the settee, Elain along with it. She landed in an ungraceful heap, flicking his chest once she untangled herself from the fabric. His bright, carefree laugh warmed her heart.

Before Elain could process what just happened, Azriel hovered over her, his body bare. There was something more intense in his eyes, like he had been waiting for this just as long as she had.

“Elain,” he murmured, “am I your first?” Softness replaced the intensity in a flash. She nodded, pulling his head down to kiss him.

“I wouldn’t have it be anyone else,” she confided. Color bloomed across his face, spreading down to his chest. Elain found it adorable.

Azriel steadied himself on one elbow, using his free hand to brush some of her hair back. “Tell me if anything hurts.” Then he reached his hand between them, lining his cock up with her entrance. Ever so slowly, he rolled his hips forward, pushing himself into her.

Elain scrunched her nose, breathing through her mouth. It wasn’t painful, but it was an unusual feeling. He stopped, seeing her expression. “Keep going,” she breathed.

He did. His thrusts were more like gentle rolling of his hips, the movements slow and controlled. Once Elain was comfortable with the fit of him inside her fully, she began moving in tandem with him. She bucked her hips up as he drove forward, his cock hitting a spot inside her that caused her to moan his name and drag her nails down his shoulders.

“Oh gods, Azriel, I’m so sorry,” Elain squeaked, realising what she did after he hissed. Whether it was pain or pleasure, she couldn’t tell. He didn’t reply, kissing her instead and shifting so he was angled to hit that spot every time.

Elain found herself climbing toward that precipice of pleasure faster than she expected. His thumb flicking over her clit was finally her undoing. Azriel’s lips found hers as her chest arced up into his. As his thrusts became erratic, his body tightening against hers, he murmured her name like it was a prayer.

Azriel tried to pull himself out of her before he came, but Elain locked her ankles together and wrapped her arms around his neck, keeping him exactly where he was. Anyhow, she was in no current danger of becoming pregnant like her younger sister; her cycle was meant to start at the end of the week. His face fell into her neck as he spilled himself inside her.

Kissing his shoulder, Elain sighed happily. Azriel kissed her jaw beneath her ear.

“Si sono così belle,” he whispered. “La mia musa.”

Elain couldn’t think of any pretty phrases to reply with, instead gently knocking Azriel unsteady so he was forced to lay on top of her. Bless the Mother, he was heavy. But it was a comfortable weight.

Yawning, she kissed him before allowing him to finally pull away. He cleaned himself up, stepping back into his breeches and relacing them. When Elain shivered, he handed her his tunic then pulled her into his lap on the settee. She gladly straddled him, looping her arms around his neck and laying her head on his shoulder. Azriel’s hands slipped beneath the hem of his tunic, resting on her lower back like he couldn’t bear to not touch her.

“Well, that was productive,” Elain giggled.

“Oh, I think that was very productive,” Azriel huffed. She could hear the wry grin in his voice. “And Elain, I’m honored you chose me to be your first.”

She blushed, smushing her nose into his neck and breathing in the scent of cedarwood that always surrounded him. There was nothing she could say that wouldn’t embarrass her, or that would come out sounding the way she wanted it to. Azriel seemed to sense what she wanted to convey, turning his head to kiss her cheek.

* * *

Lucien picked at his dinner, avoiding making eye contact with either of the Archeron sisters. Their mother, on the other hand, noticed right away that Elain wasn’t at dinner.

“Where’s Elain?” Signora Archeron asked, raising an eyebrow in between sips of wine.

“She wasn’t feeling well this afternoon. Elain’s asleep. Nesta thought she might be coming down with a fever and ordered her bedrest so she is perfectly healthy before the wedding.” Lucien pulled that out of his ass, making a face at Nesta to get her to corroborate his lie.

Nesta frowned then her lips shaped into a perfect circle as she realised what Lucien was playing at. “I think it’s just the effects of her cycle coming, but I’m sure we would all rather be safe than sorry. Right, Mama?”

Her mother nodded, waving a hand to signal that dinner was over. Lucien downed the last of his wine, gladly fleeing.

Then Nesta and Feyre yanked him into the library. Those two didn’t like each other, but when they ganged up on him, Lucien was well and truly fucked. And not like he wanted to be when two women shoved him into a chair.

“So where is Elain, really?” Nesta demanded answers from him. “I’m sure you know, seeing as you two are always covering for the other.”

Lucien offered her a grin. It fell as she glared daggers. “Uh, well, turns out I really can’t say.”

Feyre stepped up from behind her older sister. “I guess Nesta and I will just waltz into Azriel’s studio, then. If they really aren’t doing anything, this should all just be a simple misunderstanding. Let’s go, Nesta.”

The two sisters turned to leave, getting about halfway down the hall before Lucien ran in front of them, blocking the hall. He panted, swiping strands of red hair out of his face. “Alright, fine. Elain’s modeling nude for Azriel for the painting he wants to do,” he confessed with a grimace. “Please don’t kill me. Or them.”

Nesta patted his cheek. “Thank you, Lucien. That’s all I wanted to know.”

His laugh was nervous and he slumped against the wall after they walked away. He was not going to tell Nesta, the scariest Archeron sister, that he had walked past Azriel’s studio earlier and heard breathless moans coming from inside.

Oh no. Not unless he wanted to be castrated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you don't like flamboyantly bi Lucien well that's just too damn bad  
> ***  
> Bellissimo -> gorgeous
> 
> Si sono così belle -> you are so beautiful
> 
> La mia musa -> my muse


	10. Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the story starts to diverge a little bit from the show from here on out but have no fear we’re gonna get there

Feyre thought Nesta looked beautiful in the white wedding gown Amren brought for her to try on. Although her older sister stood on a stool looking like she wanted to murder someone, snapping at the dressmaker every time she was poked with a pin.

Amren knelt on the ground, murmuring to herself with pins carefully held between her lips. She made a few adjustments to it, tailoring it to fit Nesta perfectly.

The wedding was only a week away. Everyone in the complex could feel the bride-to-be’s fuse burning shorter every day.

Cassian rarely visited, but whenever he did he always stopped to play with Rosa for a bit. Feyre liked him. She tried to ignore the looks he gave her when he thought she wasn’t looking, the faint look of pity that flashed across his face. He knew. He fucking knew and refused to say anything to either her or Rhys about it.

Feyre found it odd that Nesta always looked lighter after Cassian left, pissed off and swearing up a storm. She figured it had something to do with the fact that her sister always returned from the garden sweaty, wearing trousers Amren designed specifically for her so that when she stood normally, it looked like a skirt. Their father hid the training ring so the clash of swords couldn’t be heard from inside the complex, meant to be secret to everyone but the family and staff.

Occasionally Feyre and Elain would snoop, strolling arm in arm through the garden. Nesta and Cassian would be wielding blunted training swords, whirling around each other in a deadly silver dance. They often argued while doing it about things neither sister understood. Then there would be the snarl of an insult and blades would clash with a spark.

Most days, though, Feyre had her hands full with Rosa. Elain spent most of her time with the artist, leaving his studio with an otherworldly glow surrounding her and a bounce in her step.

Feyre wasn’t stupid. She knew where that glow came from. And that the scent of ginger tea often filled the kitchens in the mornings.

To say she was jealous wouldn’t be entirely accurate, but she was. Since Feyre found out she was pregnant and after Rosa was born, she hadn’t lain with anyone. She loved her daughter more than anything in the world, but some days she wished she had never gotten pregnant. Then she and Rhys would be living on the coast, together and with no one to tell them what was proper and what wasn’t.

Rhys was in her dreams more often now. She had only seen him once since returning to Velaris, but that was all it took. Now it was hard not to remember all the good memories she had of him. Because they were all she had now.

The first time he kissed her in the fields outside the city, telling her she prettier than all the stars in the sky. When they would run through the city laughing, her hand in his. The time they unmoored his fishing boat one night, making love on the deck under the stars. Waking up next to him in his bed, not caring that her mother would likely murder her when she returned home.

But then it all had to come crashing down around her when the midwife told her she had all the signs.

Sighing heavily, Feyre picked at a loose thread in her simple lilac dress. Amren said she was making all three sisters special dresses for Nesta’s wedding. But she refused to tell them anything about them.

“Are you done yet?” Nesta snapped, hissing at Amren when the small woman deliberately poked her with a pin.

Amren unfolded a delicate white gossamer veil from the chest she brought, holding it up to the light. “Just the veil, then you can go terrorize poor Cassian. Alright, off the stool, girl. You’re too tall for me to reach.”

Nesta and Amren switched spots. Feyre stood to watch, squeezing Elain’s hand. Elain looked like she was about to start crying, but blinked the tears away. Bowing with a flourish, Amren stepped away to reveal her masterpiece.

Nesta’s shoulders were bare, the satin sleeves beginning on the same line as her bodice. A delicate crimson belt wrapped around her waist, the excess hanging loose down the front of her dress. The silk skirt flowed like water to the floor. It was only two layers, an underskirt of the softest silk imaginable, and an overskirt made of the same material with cerulean stitching along the hem, sliced clean down the middle and cut so the sides pulled away to show the underskirt.

Whorls of silver thread accented the white of the dress and the grey in Nesta’s eyes, shimmering as she shifted. Amren pinned the gossamer veil into the twists of Nesta’s hair, making it look like her hair was dusted with fresh snow.

If you looked close enough, you could see the faint whisper of the scar slashing over her heart and down her neck, courtesy of Tomas Mandray years ago when she refused his advances. Feyre saw Nesta raise her hand to brush her fingers along the pale scar. Normally, it blended in with her skin. But the white wedding gown made it stand out.

Her older sister’s voice was far softer now. “Thank you, Amren,” she said. “It’s beautiful.” The little dressmaker’s grin was feline in nature.

Elain wiped her eyes next to Feyre, whose eyes stung with tears. The three sisters hugged, all past grievances forgotten in the moment, making sure to keep their tears far away from the exquisitely-sewn gown.

* * *

Rhys stepped into Madonna Archeron’s study, wringing his hands nervously. He wiped them on his trousers, clammy with sweat. She barely looked up from the paper she was writing, handing it off to Lucien at her side. Then the redhead left, shutting the door behind him.

“Rhysand Campagna,” she said, finally looking up at him. Not knowing how to reply, he simply nodded. “Please sit. Would you like a glass of wine?”

“Yes, please, Madonna,” he replied, trying to keep his voice steady. This woman could smell fear, and he always had been terrified of Feyre’s mother. Taking a sip, he allowed the drink to calm his frayed nerves.

One of her messengers had found him as he docked his fishing boat, telling him Madonna Archeron would like to speak with him. Now, here he was, sitting in her study, waiting for her to speak.

She stood, pulling a book from the shelves behind her and opening to a blank page. Then she began writing in it, letting Rhys suffer in the silence. There was no sound other than his too-loud breathing and the scratch of her pen on the paper.

“The wedding is at the end of this week. Cassian invited you, correct?” she asked, stating it as fact rather than a question.

“Yes, Madonna.”

“I’m sure you know by now that Feyre is back in Velaris. You are permitted to come to the wedding and the feast here afterward, but you will not speak to Feyre under any circumstances. Do you understand me, Rhysand?”’

“Yes, Madonna.”

“I do not care what the two of you had, it’s over. I’m inviting a man who I think would be a very good husband to my daughter and granddaughter. He is prepared to ignore her child sired by another man, so long as she meets his expectations. His father was a friend of your father’s, was he not? Lord Tamlin Spring, making the trip to Velaris all the way from Rosehall in the south.”

The wine Rhys drank soured in his stomach.

“That’s all.” She waved a hand, signaling for him to get out as she returned to what she had been doing.

He shoved his chair back a little too roughly, all but running out of her study. Bile rose in his throat as he rushed for the nearest toilet, trying not to vomit all over the stone corridors.

Azriel found him pale and shaky, clutching the bucket as he emptied his stomach.

Too much information was whirling in Rhys’s mind and he couldn’t process it all. He tried to make a list with the most important facts.

One, Feyre had a daughter.

Two, her mother was trying to marry her off to Tamlin.

Rhys vomited again.

“You alright, Rhys?” Azriel asked, helping him to his feet.

“Yeah, sorry about that. My food must not have sat right,” Rhys apologized.

 _No, I’m not fucking alright._ He wanted to scream, cry, put up a fight. He was in love with Feyre Archeron. She had a daughter. She was being sent off to be married to none other than Tamlin fucking Spring.

Rhys hated Tamlin. That prick’s father had murdered his mother and sister, stringing their naked bodies from the gates of Messina and sending their heads to the Campagnas.

And his own bastard of a father had left Tamlin alive, deeming him not worthy of being a threat. 

Azriel was frowning, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I don’t believe you.”

Then they heard the gleeful squeal of a child sprinting down the halls with something they weren’t supposed to have, someone running after them. Azriel stepped from the shadows, scooping up a little girl holding a paintbrush covered in a violet paint so dark it looked black. She pouted at Azriel, wriggling furiously.

“Azzy, down,” she shrieked. “Down. Down down down. Me down.”

Azriel held her firmly, softly pulling the wet paintbrush from her fist. “Where’s Mama, Rosa?”

The little girlーRosaーlooked guilty. “Mama mad.”

With a sigh and shake of his head, Azriel turned to face Rhys. “I’m going to find Feyre. I’ll be back.”

Rhys couldn’t breathe.

He stumbled back into the wall, trying to form words as he pointed at the child in Azriel’s arms.

She looked exactly like him, just a miniature copy. The skin, the hair, even her little nose. Except the eyes were her mother’s.

Feyre skidded to a stop, breathing hard. “There you are, darling. Mama’s been looking for you.” She took her daughter from Azriel’s arms, just now seeing Rhys using the wall to keep himself upright.

“Rhys? What’s wrong?”

Those tears he tried so hard to keep at bay pushed themselves to the surface, streaming down his cheeks. He sank to the floor, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, thinking it would make the tears stop.

Feyre murmured something to Azriel, the little girl babbling happily as someone walked away. Then his hands were gently pulled from his face to see Feyre kneeling in front of him. She reached out to cup his cheek in one hand, hurt flashing across her features as Rhys scrambled away.

He knew if he gave in to her touch, he would never leave. He didn’t want to, but he had a feeling deep down inside that if her mother ever sensed something was amiss, his daughter would be silently disposed of. That way Feyre could marry Tamlin with nothing in the way.

No Rhys, no daughter.

“Rhys, why?” Feyre asked, scanning his face for an answer he couldn’t give her.

“Is she mine,” he breathed.

A broken sob echoed in the hallway. “What do you think, Rhys? I was sent away for _two fucking years_ because I was carrying your child. Some village in the middle of fucking nowhere, guarded day and night to make sure I could never run away.

“I was pretending to sleep one night when I heard one of them say Mama hoped I would lose the baby. Our child.” Her voice cracked, Rhysand’s heart along with it.

“If I ever saw you again, Mama said she would send Rosa somewhere where I would never find her. And I would spend the rest of my days cooped up in that tiny fucking house until I went mad and killed myself.”

At this point, Rhys couldn’t fucking care less. Madonna Archeron would be added to the list with Lord Soldato.

He pulled Feyre into his arms, cradling her as she sobbed. He rocked her back and forth softly, looking up at the ceiling to blink back his own tears. Right now, he didn’t see any good in telling Feyre about Tamlin. Their world was about to go to shit anyway. They might as well enjoy the present while it lasted.

* * *

Lord Soldato had to make one last stop before returning to Velaris for his son’s wedding to the Viper of Velaris. He sent Devlon to start heading back with the army, taking Tomas with him as they rode to Hybern.

It wouldn’t matter what Tomas knew now, seeing as he wasn’t going to live past the wedding. A peace offering before he let loose hell on the streets.

Jurian, who the lord had dealt with on multiple occasions before, led them through the great hall and into the King’s private study. Amarantha, the red-headed bitch, lounged on a black settee, playing with a dagger. That finger bone still hung around her neck, the human eye in her ring swirling to watch him as he entered. It disturbed him.

“My king,” Lord Soldato bowed, grimacing. It felt like ages before the King told them to rise. Once they did, Tomas was waved off to go play with Jurian, or whatever those two did when they were here.

“So, Brutus, what is so important that I am graced with a visit? Has Amarantha here finally sunk her claws into you?” The King sipped from an onyx chalice filled with wine, waving his loyal little assassin out of the room with a curl of his lip.

“No, your majesty. You know of my son’s upcoming marriage to Nesta Archeron?”

A dark laugh from the King. “Ah yes, the Viper of Velaris. Is this new scar from her or a battle?”

“That bitch,” Soldato snarled. Then he composed himself, leaning back in the plush chairs. “Anyhow, I want her dead. I want to wage full-scale war on Velaris and the Archerons. I would greatly appreciate your aid in doing so, my king.”

The King sat his chalice down, folding his hands together on his desk with a half-grin. “I have wanted nothing more than to wipe Velaris from the map for years. You are providing that opportunity. You will, of course, be leading the armies of Hybern. And so I must thank you, my lord Soldato. Do you have a specific timeframe?”

He thought for a moment. “Let them have a few years. Settle, fall in love, have children.” Then he and the King grinned wickedly. “And bring it crashing down around them.”

They conspired for hours afterward, drawing up a plan that would take years in the making to be successful. But it would mean the downfall of the Archeron family and the city of Velaris. And after Velaris was reduced to rubble, Prythian would be ripe for the taking.


	11. Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cue the wedding bells and I based Nesta’s wedding gown off of Clarisse’s red dress

Nesta awoke well before dawn. To be exact, she couldn’t sleep and even when she could, it was filled with nightmares. After today, she would be the wife of Cassian Soldato.

The whole city was celebrating.

Nesta hated it. She loved Velaris and its people, but they were celebrating the death of her freedom and her marriage to the son of a man who wanted her dead.

There was no point in lying in bed any longer, so she stood and dressed silently. Thank the Mother for Amren and her unusual clothing designs. Her favorite pieces were the riding pants and an elegant grey dress with pockets for everything she could possibly want or need.

The complex was silent as Nesta crept through empty corridors, tearing a chunk of bread from the loaf and grabbing an apple from the basket. Stars glimmered in the night sky, the sun not quite awake yet.

Nesta preferred darkness when she practiced. It forced her to let go of whatever thoughts crowded her mind, instead focusing on only what she could hear and feel. She began with a blindfold, moving through the stances. Any fears she had about her wedding day slipped away, into the darkness of the sea in her mind.

Dirt whispered under her boots, her sword singing as it swirled around her. Wind rustled the trees and bushes, drying the sweat droplets running down her forehead.

Then she felt the presence of another. They smelled like cedarwood and something floral. Their sword clashed with Nesta’s and she grinned. The feather-light footsteps gave him away.

“Good morning, Azriel,” she said, bending backward under the sword that arced over where her chest would have been. She felt the air rush past her face.

They sparred that way until Nesta landed a few good blows on him. Always blindfolded. Azriel danced around her with one arm behind his back, wielding a sword as delicate as hers, yet strong enough to cleave a man’s head from his shoulders.

Nesta cleaned her blade, sheathing it before picking up a target and moving it. She and Azriel practiced archery in silence, a constant competition between the two to see who could get perfect bullseyes no matter what they were doing.

When they panted, Nesta collapsed onto the dirt, staring up at the clouds. The sky was painted every shade of pastel pink, blue, and yellow as the sun rose.

Azriel lay down next to her, his hands folded behind his head. “Cassian’s a good man, Nesta,” he murmured. “Give him a chance, please. He’s my brother.”

Sighing heavily, Nesta closed her eyes. “My mother arranged this entire thing without consulting either one of us. She thinks it will tame the fire Feyre says is always burning in my eyes.”

Azriel was quiet beside her. She almost couldn’t hear him when he breathed, “I know what you mean.” Then he spoke up. “They think by forcing you into a cage that fits what they want, you will break yourself into pieces to fit. I know, Nesta. I know. More than you could ever imagine.

“My father and brother shut me in pitch black darkness for years on end. They starved me. I learned to find stones on the ground and draw on the walls, my mind filling in colors where there were none. That’s when they dipped my hands in oil then set them alight. They thought I would stop. I healed, and I never stopped. And now everyone across Prythian wants a painting by the great Signor Azriel Romano.”

Nesta flicked a tiny stone into the air. “Fucking hells, Az. You’re a man. It’s easier for you. And you’re not part of some great banking family with reputations to uphold like I am. I’m a woman. My job is to bear my husband children and pretend to have no thoughts for myself.”

She felt rather than heard him roll over, those amber eyes piercing her soul.

“Bullshit. You save lives, Nesta. You are a doctor, no matter what anyone else says. Cassian will never stop you from doing what you love. I’ve known him long enough that I know he wants someone who will be his equal, who will challenge him for every step he takes. If he’s wrong, you correct him. He will never force you into doing anything you don’t want to. The last name doesn’t mean shit.”

“He can escape his father by marrying me. I can’t escape my mother. She controls every aspect of our lives. I’m forced into a marriage to save Velaris, Elain is supposed to marry Lucien one day to make him truly a part of the family, and Feyre is being sent to Rosehall with Tamlin after the wedding. She’s in love with Rhys. You would have to be blind to not see it. 

“I’m just over here trying to keep myself together while everyone else is falling in love around me.”

Azriel’s scarred hand found hers, holding it tight and squeezing. “Sometimes the most powerful thing you can do for yourself is let it fall to pieces and then build from the ashes. You are stronger than you know, Nesta Archeron.”

Nesta heard the grin in his voice. “You couldn’t kill her in secret, could you?”

Her laugh filled the dawn. “Az, that would be a dream come true. More freedom than I could ever imagine.”

He flicked her nose. She swatted a clod of dirt in his face. Azriel scoffed, lunging for her to make her regret ever doing that. Nesta shrieked, dodging him until he caught her, rubbing dirt all over her face. She surprised him, lugging him to the pond before shoving him in. It was only a foot deep, but he was soaked from head to toe.

They glanced at the other and how messy they both were, laughing until Nesta fell on the ground, her sides aching from laughing so hard. She helped Azriel out of the pond, heading back for the training ring because he said he had a surprise for her.

“Close your eyes,” he ordered. She snorted. “All of them. No peeking.” Leather creaked before it was placed in her outstretched hands. “You can look now.”

Nesta’s jaw dropped. In her hands lay a beautiful leather sheath portraying a viper curled around a blade. Jasmine bloomed in the background. The blade itself was made of the same gleaming blue metal Azriel’s sword was. A hunting knife, the perfect size to strap to her thigh. A pearl was embedded in the hilt. Elegant, yet wicked. Just like Nesta.

“It’s Illyrian steel,” Azriel said. “A friend made the sheath. I had the blade specially made for you. The Viper of Velaris. Well, every good viper needs some fangs.” His grin was shy.

Nesta punched his shoulder. “You sly bastard. I love it, thank you.” She sheathed the dagger, hugging him tightly.

He just shrugged, looking embarrassed now. They strolled through the garden arm in arm, one soaking wet and muddy, the other covered in dirt. They were quite the pair. 

And Nesta didn’t even realise until she was done with her bath that Azriel had completely distracted her from thinking about the wedding.

* * *

Cassian paced in his rooms. His father was somewhere below. Azriel was late. He and Rhys were supposed to help him get ready for his wedding.

Azriel raced in, Rhys at his heels. The former’s hair was still damp.

“You’re late,” Cassian grumbled, dragging his hands through his hair for the thousandth time.

“Sorry, Cass. Nesta shoved me into the pond this morning. I gave her one, you’ve got the other still, right?” Azriel nodded toward the dagger laying on Cassian’s desk. A present for his bride.

Hopefully she wouldn’t use it to stab him while they slept.

Cassian fidgeted so much while Rhys and Azriel dressed him that Azriel threatened to take that pretty dagger and pin Cassian to the wall with it so he would stop moving. Azriel braided his hair, three tiny braids on one side, four on the other. He pulled the braids and the loose hair between them into a bun, leaving the rest loose to curl into unruly waves. Then he took the two gold hoops Cassian never wore, except for formal occasions, fitting them through the holes in his ears from his year of sailing around Prythian.

A black tunic embroidered with gold thread fit him perfectly. Overtop was a simple black jacket with white silk slits, belted with a crimson sash. The bottom half was simply black breeches and his black riding boots, cleaned of any mud or horse shit. 

The whole ensemble came from Amren, who told Azriel exactly how it was supposed to go on. She would be too busy with Nesta’s wedding gown to fuss with Cassian.

Cassian stared at himself in the mirror. He didn’t look like himself. It was the damned jacket. Tearing it off, he threw it on his bed, retying the crimson sash and adding a black belt overtop with a sheath for his own hunting knives. One on each hip, a birthday gift from Rhys and Azriel years ago.

He was about to shut the door when he remembered the dagger. Snatching it, he ran after Azriel and Rhys. They would be standing at his side today. Cassian honestly couldn’t tell if he felt like he had to pee every five minutes or if he wanted to shit himself. Either way, he was fucking terrified.

In less than an hour, Nesta Archeronーthe Viper of Velarisーwould be his wife.

The city bells chimed three on the hour. A chill swept through the city, leaves skittering across cobblestones in the silence. Rhys took the gift from Cassian after he nearly dropped it twice, shaking his head.

Mother Luna gave Cassian a gentle smile, squeezing his hand. He settled some, waiting for the clop of hooves that would signify the beginning of the ceremony. Closing his eyes, he controlled his breathing. In and out. In and out. In and out until his hands were steady and that battle-calm settled over him.

Finally, Nesta rode into the square on a grey Arabian. She stopped at the base of the steps to the temple, waiting for Cassian to help her down. It was just a tradition, but Nesta looked like she wanted to strangle him the entire time she was in his arms.

Cassian bowed in front of Mother Luna as Nesta curtseyed. Then they turned to face each other, joining hands. As the head priestess spoke, Cassian took the time to admire Nesta’s wedding dress.

Simply put, it was exquisite. Her collarbones shimmered in the afternoon sunlight, like her chest had been brushed with oil to create the shine. While his accent colors were crimson and gold, hers were silver and cerulean.

Satin sleeves began on the same line as her bodice. A delicate cerulean belt wrapped around her waist, the excess hanging loose down the front of her dress. The silk skirt flowed like water to the stone beneath them. It was only two layers, an underskirt and an overskirt made of the same material with cerulean stitching along the hem, sliced clean down the middle and cut so the sides pulled away to show the underskirt. Whorls of silver thread accented the white of the dress and the grey in Nesta’s eyes, shimmering in the sunlight as she shifted.

A white gossamer veil was carefully pinned into the loose waves of her hair, twisted away from her face. There was no sign of the braid he had seen so many times before, but she looked breathtaking with her hair loose. Simple pearl earrings hung from her ears, not attracting enough attention to distract from the dress.

Atop her head rested a silver diadem, small sapphires glittering in the sun. Standing next to her, Cassian felt woefully underdressed.

“Cassian and Nesta Archeron, I now pronounce you married in the name of the Mother. May your life be long and blissful,” Mother Luna finished, tugging the cloth that covered their hands off.

The crowd echoed the last sentence back as the newlywed couple turned to face them. Cassian felt Azriel subtly kicking his boot and Rhys pressing the dagger into the hand he folded behind his back.

“Kiss her,” Rhys hissed, loud enough that Nesta whipped around to glare at him. “Coward.”

Cassian flipped Rhys off behind his back, hearing Mother Luna sigh disapprovingly. Then he cupped Nesta’s face, leaning in close. “Please don’t knee me in the balls this time, sweetheart,” he chuckled. Nesta pressed her lips to his after rolling her eyes, looping her arms around his neck.

The crowd cheered.

They had a few moments to themselves as the crowd began to break off, heading for their own festivities. It wasn’t every day they got to celebrate a wedding and peace between two well-known families who could sink the city into war with a snap of their fingers.

“Nesta,” Cassian pressed the dagger into her hands, “I know how much you despise my family. But I’m an Archeron now, thank the gods. Now please don’t murder me in my sleep with that.” He kissed her cheek softly before being dragged off by his friends, looking back to see Nesta staring after him, confusion written clearly in her features. Then she was surrounded by her sisters and he couldn’t see her anymore.

Azriel and Rhys tackled Cassian into a hug once they were safely in Azriel’s studio. Rhys pulled out a bottle of the expensive wine the Archerons made themselves, yanking the cork out. They passed it around, drinking and laughing.

“Gods,” Rhys bemoaned, “out of all of us, I never thought Cass would be the one to get married first.”

Cassian glanced between the canvas hidden under a white sheet and Azriel, seeing his brother’s face pale. Shooting him a shit-eating grin, Cassian stood to yank the sheet off.

Then he squawked, trying to throw the sheet back on with his eyes squeezed shut. He loved Elain like a sister. He didn’t want to see her nude. Even if it was a painting.

“My eyes,” Cassian moaned. “My eyes are scarred.”

The studio doors opened, Elain herself slipping inside. “Cassian, you and Nesta are expected to dance. Come on, faster, you drunkards.” She shooed them to the courtyard none of them knew existed, shoving Cassian toward Nesta.

His wife.

Oh fuck.

He was the trophy husband of the Viper of Velaris.

Nesta took his hand as the string quartet began playing. They danced to one song, then two more. Cassian pretended it was just another round in the sparring ring, seeing as he had never liked dancing. The guests clapped politely, meandering around to gossip amongst one another, wine in hand.

“You dance like shit,” Nesta whispered in his ear. Cassian barked a laugh. “You fight well enough, I’m not in the mood to discover how you fuck, if you’re anything like Az you eat everything in sight, and you can’t dance to save your life.”

They smiled at guests, Nesta arm-in-arm with her husband. When they weren’t chatting with some of the guests, they were insulting the other in whispers.

Cassian grinned at Mor, beelining for her. He bowed to kiss her hand, her laugh sparkling like wine when he was buzzed. Nesta looked disgusted as Mor took her hands, kissing her cheeks in greeting. It was hard not to laugh, but Cassian was really hoping to avoid getting kneed in the balls on his wedding day.

“The Viper of Velaris,” Mor beamed. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Signora Archeron.” Nesta only nodded the same, striding away. And Cassian couldn’t help but watch her hips sway.

They talked about nothing and everything for a while before joining with Azriel, Rhys, Amren, and Elain. Feyre was sitting with Rosa on a stone bench, playing games with her. Nesta was nowhere to be found.

It felt like no time had passed before Amren, Rhys, and Mor left, promising to come visit soon. Azriel walked Elain to her rooms, leaving Cassian alone in the garden.

“There you are, boy.”

Cassian’s spine stiffened at his father’s voice. He was dragged through the house and up a staircase to an open door and shoved inside to see Nesta arguing with her mother. His wife waved her hands, clearly furious with whatever was happening.

“Signora Archeron, is everything prepared?” the lord questioned. “The sooner they get this over with, the less awkward it will be.”

“What exactly is happening?” Cassian demanded to know, although he had a sinking feeling he knew exactly what was coming.

“The consummation of our marriage,” Nesta said.

Crossing his arms across his chest, Cassian glared at both of their parents. “That’s archaic. I’m not doing it. By the gods, it’s perverted and awkward for everyone involved.”

His cheek stung with the force of his father’s backhand, his jaw aching. Blood trickled down his cheek from that fucking gold signet ring.

“I do not care how it’s done, you will consummate your marriage tonight.” With a wave of his hand, servants brought in a long roll of fabric, setting up the elaborate screen that would separate the couple from the viewers.

Cassian ended up on the same side as Nesta. He moved to stand in front of her, shielding her from his father’s prying eyes. “I have no intention of forcing you to fuck me, Nesta. I’m not my father,” he whispered.

“Why?” she hissed.

“Maybe because I have a shred of fucking decency, that’s why,” he snapped, pissed off at everything but her.

Her shoulders sagged in silent relief. Cassian guessed from her apprehension that she had never lain with anyone before. Or if she had, it wasn’t a pleasant memory.

He pulled off his tunic, toeing off his boots as Nesta pulled the pins from her hair. She loosened the laces in the back then turned and pulled her hair over her shoulder so he could undo the rest. Then he helped her pull the silk and satin contraption over her head.

Nesta stood bare before him, crossing her arms over her chest. Shifting to make sure he was always between her and their parents, Cassian gently lifted her and laid her on her massive four-poster bed. The blue gossamer curtains were pulled loose to obscure even more of their bodies from prying eyes.

Untying his breeches and slipping them off, Cassian crawled onto her bed and hovered over Nesta. Her eyes were squeezed shut and her breathing was uneven, her body rigid underneath him.

“Nesta, look at me. Look at me.” His voice was gentle. “I’m not going to hurt you. I just need you to play along. Can you do that?”

She nodded, watching him warily. Offering her a soft smile, Cassian kissed the calluses on her palm.

* * *

His lips were warm and soft on her palm. Nodding to him, Nesta stopped breathing for a second as she waited.

Cassian’s lips ghosted along her ear as he pretended to adjust himself. “Gasp on three. One, two, three.”

Nesta did. She gasped, her head falling back onto her pillows. Nothing happened. He kept his word. His hips were pressed into hers, but other than that, nothing.

Maybe Azriel was right. Maybe Cassian was a good man.

Nesta couldn’t remember the last time she had actively turned her mind off, effectively cutting her brain off from her body. Well, yes she could, she just chose not to because it was still too painful, even five years later. Tomas Mandray deserved to die. He deserved to suffer. 

Before she knew it, Cassian faked finishing, collapsing on top of her until they heard her mother and his father leave. The second the door closed, Cassian was off of her, stepping back into his breeches. Nesta crawled under her blankets, pulling them up to her chest.

The entire time, his eyes had never left hers. If he had noticed the long scar across her chest courtesy of Mandray, he didn’t say anything.

He opened her wardrobe, pulling out the first nightgown he saw and handed it to her, turning around as she changed. Nesta tapped his shoulder, wanting to thank him. It was strange, thanking the son of her enemy. Cassian whipped around, clearly expecting to be yelled at.

“Thank you,” Nesta murmured, standing on her toes to kiss his cheek. Then she got in bed, sitting cross-legged and picking up her book from the nightstand.

“Uh, where do I sleep?” Cassian asked, dragging a hand through his hair. “I guess you don’t want me to sleep in your bed. Or if I did, I would probably wake up with your new knife in my stomach.” There was a crooked half-grin on his face.

Nesta didn’t look up from her book. “Just for tonight, you can sleep here. My bed is large enough for two. When the servants come in tomorrow morning, they will be expecting us to be in bed together. Rumours will circulate if you aren’t. Tomorrow afternoon, we go to the villa in the countryside for two weeks. Mama planned it.”

She tried to ignore her bed shifting as he lay down, keeping his back to her. Three chapters later, soft snoring came from his side. Nesta giggled to herself, adding snoring to the mental list she kept of all the things she could insult him with. Blowing out her candle, she settled in, pulling her blankets up to her chin.

Nesta was married. And to add to the list of shocking things that happened today, he was Cassian Soldato no more. He broke centuries of tradition, taking her last name. Cassian Archeron. It sounded strange.

The last name didn’t really matter, seeing as they were both going to kill his father one day when the bastard least expected it.


	12. Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know this chapter is really long but it kinda sets up a lot for later

A crisp autumn wind gusted through the window of Elain’s room, its kiss icy against her bare skin. Shivering, she burrowed deeper into the warmth beside her.

Azriel grumbled in his sleep, pulling Elain closer. Sighing happily, Elain closed her eyes, trying to fall back asleep.

Then she heard her handmaidens chattering as they walked down the hall toward her room.

Panicking, Elain shook Azriel. He shot up with a start, furiously looking around for the danger. His eyes widened as he heard the women just outside her door.

_Under the bed,_ Elain mouthed. She pressed her lips to his for a hasty kiss then shoved him under her bed.

A knock on her door. “Signorina, are you awake?”

Elain scrambled to pull her fur thick blanket up, trying to fluff out the pillow indented by Azriel’s head. Once she was satisfied, she breathed in deeply to calm her heart pounding in her chest.

“Come in,” she called out.

The door opened and just Alis came in. Elain cocked her head in confusion, her brows furrowing. She could have sworn there were two voices. Alis was their old nursemaid, but now she took care of Rosa most days.

The old woman’s grin was sly. “Dear child, he can come out from under the bed. I sent Serena to the kitchens to fetch you tea. Up up, you need to get dressed. You’re in charge of waking your sister and her new husband up.” She wrapped Elain in a lined robe as she stood, striding over to assess what simple gowns were clean.

Azriel crawled out from under Elain’s bed, his cheeks crimson with embarrassment. Alis kept her back turned, perusing the dresses to give them some privacy. He dressed quickly, kissing her cheek before slipping out the door.

“How did you know, Alis?” Elain wanted to know.

“My dear girl, I just know. Anyhow, you two are inseparable now. Where one goes, the other is probably not far behind. I just figured that applied to sleeping arrangements as well.”

“Oh.”

Embarrassed, Elain clutched her robe tighter against her body. Once she told Lucien, she knew he would have the time of his life laughing at their foolishness.

Make no mistake, she had walked in on him asleep with naked partners multiple times. Too many times. Sometimes it was one, sometimes it was two. Anyhow, Elain was just glad it was Alis and not Lucien. Her friend might have been temped to crawl into bed with them and would have been perfectly happy making everything awkward.

Dressed in a simple sky blue dress, Elain strode through the halls toward Nesta’s room, a mug of steaming ginger tea cupped in her hands. Feyre passed her sister on her own way downstairs for breakfast, yawning and holding a sleepy Rosa.

It wasn’t even earlyーthe sun was already high in the skyーbut after yesterday’s drinking and celebrations they were all entitled to sleep in as long as they pleased.

Quiet conversation trailed from around the corner. Lucien was half-dressed, shooing a blonde out of his room, her friend looking like he was still half-asleep. Once he saw Elain, he grinned and kissed her cheek.

“Gods, Ellie, I’m never drinking that much again,” he whined, stealing the mug from her hands to drink some of it. Elain stole it back, kicking his shin. “Ow. You little brat. You’re being very rude to your best friend, who is still very hungover.”

Shaking her head, Elain gave him a once-over. “Put some pants on, Luce. I have been given the job of waking Nesta, so wish me luck.”

Lucien’s eyes widened as he dramatically placed his hand over his heart. “What ever shall I do if you don’t return from your journey? I will be alone. All alone in this massive castle of stone with no one to gossip with.”

Elain rolled her eyes. “Pants, Lucien. Anyway, Nesta won’t kill me for waking her up.”

“Bless the Mother, child. I hope so.”

Lucien’s door shut with a quiet snick behind her as she headed down the hall. Her older sister’s room was the highest up, with a balcony that looked over the city. Winded by the time she reached the top of the stairs, Elain leaned against the wall for a few seconds to catch her breath. She hated those stairs. Of course her sister had to choose the room that was the most secluded in the entire house.

“Damn it all to hell, I don’t know how she does this everyday,” Elain wheezed. She decided it was stamina. And pure force of will. Which Nesta had plenty of.

Slipping into her older sister’s room, Elain saw the servants hadn’t yet come to remove the privacy screen. She thought her mother wouldn’t have pushed for the consummation. But then again, she didn’t know why her mother chose to do many of the things she did.

Elain padded on silent feet around to the other side of the curtain. Nesta’s dress was laying on the back of her chair, hairpins scattered on the vanity. And two matching daggers. They were new, Elain realised.

It took a great deal more courage than she expected to finally look in the direction of her sister’s bed.

Nesta’s face was relaxed when she slept. Peaceful. No sign of how much her mind whirled while she was awake. She lay on her side facing the balcony, her back to her husband. The blankets were pulled up to her chin. Nesta’s need to be as warm as possible while she slept clearly hadn’t changed in the years since she and Elain shared a bed when the nightmares came.

Cassian slept on his stomach, his face smushed into a pillow. Elain heard him snoring and bit down her laugh. He sounded just like Azriel.

Her sister must have stolen all the blankets, because what few remained covered him from his lower back down to where they were tucked in under the mattress. His back was bare and Elain could see all the scars crisscrossing his skin. One arm was flung out, stretched carelessly across Nesta’s waist on top of the blankets.

It wasn’t as indecent as Elain expected to find. To be honest, she was expecting Cassian to have at least one stab wound. None was good though. But now came the part she dreaded most: waking them up.

Elain sighed, striding over and yanking open the curtains. Someone groaned and blankets rustled.

“Morning, Lanie,” Nesta mumbled, rubbing her eyes.

Elain snorted as she turned around, seeing Nesta gingerly pick up Cassian’s arm, move it out of her lap where it had shifted when she sat up, then unceremoniously drop it. She handed her older sister one of her lined robes from the wardrobe.

“Don’t bother getting dressed for breakfast,” Elain said. “I’m not sure if Lucien put on pants before heading down. Feyre’s in a robe and nightgown.”

Nesta huffed out a laugh. Then she took a book from her vanity and threw it at the still-asleep, snoring figure on the bed. It hit Cassian in the shoulder.

Both sisters laughed when he startled with a shout, falling on the floor.

“Fuck you,” they heard him grumble. 

Nesta intertwined her fingers with Elain’s, dragging them out of the room and down to breakfast. “I’m starving,” she whispered in Elain’s ear. “That godsdamned dress was so tight I couldn’t eat anything without feeling like seams were going to split.”

Elain grinned, squeezing Nesta’s hand. She didn’t dare ask about last night, but she wasn’t complaining about her sister’s bright mood. Although Elain knew it had something to do with them watching her sister’s new husband fall out of bed after being startled awake.

* * *

Lucien flopped into a chair across from Feyre at the table, making faces at Rosa. Her blue eyes sparkled with a child’s innocence. And a hint of her father’s mischief.

He groaned inwardly. The older this little monster got, the more trouble she would get herself into.

“Good morning, Feyre darling,” Lucien drawled, sipping from the glass of wine placed in front of him by a servant. “So did you spend your night alone or with a certain someone like the rest of us?”

“I never sleep alone, Lucien,” Feyre replied, her glare scathing.

His sigh was heavy. “You know what I mean.”

“No, Lucien. Rhys did not sneak back in after he left for the night.” Feyre’s brows furrowed. “Don’t you have work to do?”

“Yes, darling, but that’s why I have underlings. Just so I can sit and drink wine and irritate you.” Lucien grinned what Elain called his fox-grin.

Then Azriel padded into the dining area on silent feet, his black tunic rumpled and his hair messy like he had dragged his fingers through it repeatedly. Lucien found it extremely attractive, except for the fact that he looked like he would drop dead at any second.

“Long night, Az?” Lucien crooned. He could sniff out drama and secrets anywhere and loved revealing them. And he knew the pretty painter spent his night in Elain’s bed.

Azriel’s eyes flicked to Lucien then away, to the food on the table before him. “Fuck off, Vanserra.”

Pouting in mock offense, Lucien drummed his fingers on the table. “You know, I’m surprised Elain could walk this morning. I’ve heard rumours of how Velaris’s greatest painter is in bed andー”

The knife Azriel had been using to slice an apple was embedded in the wood, the handle quivering. The slam echoed. Azriel was on his feet, his chair shoved backward with a scream of wood on stone. He looked prepared to murder Lucien in the next few seconds.

“Oh fuck,” Lucien muttered under his breath. Feyre snickered across from him then immediately sobered up at glares from both of them.

Elain breezed in, saving Lucien from near-death at the hands of a painter. A fucking painter.

She paused, sensing the tension in the room. Then she rolled her eyes, downing the rest of Lucien’s glass of wine. He scoffed in outrage.

“Boys, if you want to murder each other, do it in the training ring. Please.” Elain fixed both Azriel and Lucien with withering glares. They both sat down, trying to make themselves as small as possible while still glaring at the other. Lucien winked at Azriel, watching the painter’s knuckles tighten on the hilt of his knife.

Elain tugged on Lucien’s hair, making him squeal. “Apologize for whatever you said,” she commanded.

Lucien crossed his arms, looking up at the tapestry above the hearth. “No.”

“Lucien Vanserraー”

“No.”

“You two are fucking children,” Elain hissed. “I can’t deal with you right now.” She stormed out of the room in a whirlwind of blue skirts, Feyre on her heels with Rosa.

A few minutes after they left, Lucien set his glass down. “Azriel,” a hum in response, “I’m sorry.”

“What?”

Clenching his fists, Lucien repeated himself. He didn’t like doing it. “I’m sorry for what I said.”

Azriel set his fork and knife down, his eyes meeting Lucien’s. “What did you say?”

“Gods. I’m sorry I said that!” Lucien exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air in exasperation.

The painter chuckled. It was a dark and velvety sound, once that coated Lucien’s tongue like honey. Too bad Azriel was already Elain’s. He wondered if she would share.

“You bastard. You did that on purpose.”

Azriel shrugged. “Maybe I did. Maybe I just couldn’t hear you. Have a nice day, Vanserra.” 

Lucien could only stare, his mouth open in shock, as Azriel stood and handed his dishes to the waiting servant before leaving, shooting Lucien a cheeky wave. Azriel Romano was a puzzle, one Lucien wanted desperately to solve.

* * *

A gentle sea breeze tousled Cassian’s loose hair, the crisp blue ocean stretching out endlessly before the bow of the ship. His mother’s people were a mountainous folk, their apprehension to the sea carried through generations. Cassian loved both. To him, they were equally important.

He was whacked on the arm with a book, startling awake. Nesta glared at him from across the carriage.

“You were snoring. Loudly.”

Cassian snorted. “My apologies, my darling wife.”

Her glare looked like it would slice him to pieces and feed him to a hound without a shred of remorse.

“How much longer?” he questioned. Cassian would much rather be riding alongside on Bryaxis, but his mother-in-law forced them both into the carriage and said someone would bring their horses.

“Shut up,” was her reply, not even bothering to look up from the book she was reading.

Bored and filled with pent-up energy from his nap, Cassian snatched the book out of her hands. He expected it to be some dreary medical tome, not a romance novel. So he began reading aloud and tried not to break into a fit of laughter, keeping a snarling Nesta at bay with one hand.

“His sapphire eyes flicked upwards, those dastardly lips curving up into a cruel smile. Then he stood from his knees, pushing her onto the bed and pinning her hips down so he could lower his mouth to her,” Cassian trailed off, winking at his wife. “You know, sweetheart, I could probably do a hell of a lot better than some man in a novel.”

Nesta snatched her book back, cuffing him upside the head with the back of her hand. “As I said yesterday, I am in no mood to find out how you fuck.”

Cassian smirked, humming sassily in agreement. He squealed as she whacked him again. “Ow, Nes, you would hit your gorgeous husband? I’m offended.”

“Call me that again I’ll make sure you’re never able to use your cock again.”

“Sure you will, _Nes_.”

“Don’t fucking try me, Cassian.”

“You would be missing out, sweetheart,” Cassian crooned with a grin. “Despite what you call my savagery, I do know how to pleasure a lady. But you’re no lady, are you?”

Nesta slammed her book shut, seething. “Shut. Your. Fucking. Mouth,” she snarled.

A flush of anger bloomed in her cheeks and on her chest, making the stormy blue of her eyes stand out even more. Last night he hadn’t noticed it, but the color made the long pale scar dragging down her neck towards her heart noticeable.

She saw his eyes glance down and swore, shrugging on her cloak to hide the scar from him.

“Who?” Cassian breathed. It had to be a man Nesta turned down and when he couldn’t accept that a woman wouldn’t bow to his every whim, attacked her. No woman deserved that.

No one deserved that.

Nesta stiffened, shifting to pull back the curtain and look outside. Her voice was quiet. “I don’t want to talk about it. Let it go, please.”

Just as he was about to reply, the carriage rattled to a stop and he heard trunks being offloaded. The door opened and Nesta smiled. It was the first real smile he had ever seen. She practically jumped out of the carriage, hugging a woman with dark skin and hair in elaborate twists, talking too fast for him to understand. Cassian followed shyly, pausing to spin around and admire the villa.

A stream babbled happily somewhere to his left. The trees in the distance were aflame with autumn colors. They formed a barrier, protecting the villa’s grounds from prying eyes. Up until them was a massive grassy field where two guards lounged against a tree, sharing food and talking. But the villa itself? Pale, creamy stone towered above him, windows open wide to let the last sweet kiss of summer inside. White Grecian columns stood in regal pairs on either side of the stairs leading up to the front door. Two prowling lion statues, one on either side of the entrance, guarded the house.

Inside, sunlight streamed through glass windows, illuminating detailed paintings signed by Feyre and plush rugs and armchairs and settees made of the most comfortable material. A long hallway stretched straight back, glass doors giving him a glimpse of the back balcony, sitting above a lush garden. The dining room had a portrait of Lorenzo Archeron standing with his wife and children framed and hung over the hearth, looking down over the massive mahogany table. A navy tablerunner stretched the length, embroidered with silver constellations and the Archeron family crest dead in the center.

Bookshelves covered one wall of Nesta’s bedroom floor to ceiling, books stacked neatly in alphabetical order. A settee of soft dove grey lay in front of the crackling hearth, spotless white pillows embroidered with silver vipers adorning it. Her bed was massive. Four posts nearly touched the ceiling, gauzy charcoal gossamer pinned back. A thick black fur blanket covered her bed, five matching pillows propped up against the headboard.

A servant found him napping in the library hours later and informed him it was time for dinner. Nesta sat at a simple wrought-iron bistro table on the back balcony, sipping her glass of wine as she waited for Cassian.

“Well?” she questioned after he poured himself a glass and sat down. “What do you think?”

“About what?” Cassian asked.

Her chuckle was light, vastly different from earlier in the carriage when she snapped at him. “The house,” she said, gesturing to everything surrounding them.

Cassian shifted to make himself more comfortable and leaned back. “It feels like a home,” he mused. “I like it here. The silence is strange though. It’s never this quiet in Velaris.”

Nesta hummed in agreement as the same woman from earlier set plates down in front of them. “Thank you, Emerie.”

Gold jewelry sparkled on her ebony skin in the firelight from candles around them. The woman nodded, bowing to Nesta first and then Cassian before heading back inside.

After dinner Cassian offered Nesta his arm, not expecting her to take it. A flush from the wine sat high on her cheeks, her eyes glowing in the dim lighting. She shut the door to her bedroom a little too roughly, kicking off her slippers and loosing her hair from the braided crown she always wore.

He was perfectly content to sit on the settee and read one of the many books from her shelves. The fire crackled and popped merrily, covering the sound of fabric rustling behind him as she undressed.

Nesta slung her arms around his neck, resting her chin on his shoulder. “Come to bed, husband,” she whined.

Cassian shook his head. “You’re drunk, Nesta.”

She walked around to stand in front of him, taking the book from his hands and settling herself in his lap. Her breath reeked of wine and Cassian struggled to keep a straight face. Curling herself up in his lap, she laid her head on his heart and closed her eyes. “You’re so warm,” she mumbled, drifting off into a wine-induced slumber.

Making sure not to wake her, Cassian carried her to her bed and tucked her in, pulling the blankets up. He wasn’t tired, so he lit a lamp and wandered the gardens. Sure enough, he found a training ring deep inside. Although this one was easily three times the size of the one in the Archeron complex.

Inside the small lean-to was a variety of blades and weapons. Wickedly curved khopeshs from the Dawn legionaires, golden spears with blades tipped in poison from Adriata, the customary short-sword from Rosehall in the south, a coiled whip and dagger from Autumn commanders, and twin sabers from Winter. He saw nothing from Sol, under Helion’s rule. Farther back was a rack dripping in Illyrian weapons from his mother’s homeland. The hunting knives, longbow, and shimmering blue Illyrian steel were all made beautifully.

Cassian turned to leave, tripping over something on the floor. It was a scythe, the blade etched with characters he didn’t recognize. It seemed to hum in his hands. He quickly set the scythe down, a chill racing down his spine.

Padding back outside, he lay down in the dirt worn soft by years of use on his back, pillowing his head on his hands. The stars shone brightly above him, the night sky clearer than he could ever imagine without a cloud in sight. The moon was but a silver crescent in the sky, barely there.

One star sparkled and Cassian smiled. He always believed his mother’s soul lay within that star, watching over him.

“Hey Mama,” he whispered, “I miss you. And you’ll never believe it, Mama. I’m married now,” Cassian chuckled, shifting so he could look at the simple gold band on his finger. “I think you would like her if you were still alive, even if she can’t stand me. Nesta accused my father and Tomas Mandray of murdering her father in front of the Priori, even though women aren’t allowed. They call her the Viper of Velaris.

“And Azriel’s doing well. You remember him, right? He’s in love with Nesta’s younger sister, Elain. They’re happy. Az and Ellie are perfect for each other.”

Cassian’s smile fell. “Mama, he hasn’t done anything violent since that day in the Prioriーbesides beat me half-to-death, of course. I’m worried he’s planning something. I promised Nesta we would kill him, together, because he’s going to hurt her worse than what happened to you if she doesn’t fall into line. If you knew her, Mama, you would know that she’s like you. She would rather stare down Death in the face than bow to a man’s wishes.

“Please. Send me some sort of sign if he’s planning something. No one deserves that. I love you, Mama. I miss you every day.”

Cassian didn’t realise he was crying until hot tears rolled down the sides of his face, dripping into the dirt. It had been sixteen years since his mother’s death and yet it still stung like it was yesterday.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he sat up and tried to muffle his sobs, tucking his knees into his chest. A warm breeze brushed across his cheek, ruffling his loose hair. His mother’s fingers ghosted across his cheek before she cupped his cheek in one hand, brushing his hair off of his forehead and kissing the crease between his brows.

_Sleep, my darling boy. Dreams contain the answers you seek._

Yawning, Cassian crawled to his feet and trudged back to Nesta’s bedroom, suddenly bone-tired. He barely managed to take his boots and tunic off before collapsing onto the bed, asleep before his head even hit the pillow.

* * *

Rosa poked fingers sticky with blackberry jam into Feyre’s face, rudely waking her up. She giggled when her mother scowled.

Suddenly the door flew open, Signora Archeron storming in. The older woman shook her head in disappointment before yanking Feyre out of bed. “Bathe and dress nicely,” she ordered. “Lord Tamlin is coming today. If everything goes well, you will be leaving with him at the end of the week when he returns to Rosehall

Feyre thought she didn’t hear her mother right. “You’re marrying me off to _Tamlin_?” she asked, her voice low in disbelief.

“He’s agreed to raise that river filth’s child up as his own, which is the best offer you are ever going to get, seeing as no one in Velaris will even look twice at marrying you when you have another man’s child. Get up, Feyre.”

“River filth?” Feyre shouted, covering Rosa’s ears. “His name is Rhys and I love him. We were supposed to get married and live on the coast. Then I would never be stuck under your fucking thumb. Go to hell,” she spat.

Tears pricked her eyes as her mother yanked Feyre’s head back with an iron-grip on her hair. “Rhysand Campagna is dead. He drunk too much at the wedding, fell off his boat, and drowned. Now get dressed.”

“No,” Feyre breathed. She would know if he was dead. Wouldn’t she? “You’re lying!” she sobbed. “You have to be lying. I would know.”

_Wouldn’t she?_

Her mother grabbed Feyre’s face so hard she swore it would bruise, leaning in close. “He’s dead, Feyre. Move on.” Then she swept out of the room, the only indication this wasn’t a nightmare being the faint scent of heady perfume lingering in her wake and Rosa whimpering in Feyre’s arms.

Feyre threw the glass vase full of flowers at the closed door and delighted in the way it shattered, glass skittering across the floor. Alis poked her head in a moment later, giving Feyre a sad smile.

“I’m sorry, signorina. Come on, let’s get you up and get this sweet little munchkin away from all of this broken glass, yes?” She padded across the floor, avoiding all the shattered glass and took Rosa into her arms. Rosa cried “Mama!,” not wanting to go with Alis.

Pulling her knees into her chest, Feyre sobbed into her hands. Rhysーthe love of her lifeーwas dead and she was expected to just marry Lord Tamlin by the end of the week.

Donning a simple navy day dress and heavy black cloak, she fled from the complex, running to the docks before she even realised where she was going. His fishing boat was docked, the deck empty.

Feyre sniffled, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her dress. Picking up her skirts, she jumped onto the deck and headed for belowdecks. It smelled so strongly of him: brine, jasmine, and citrus. Biting her lip to choke back her sobs, she fell back against the wall and sank to the floor.

Wood creaked as someone rushed towards her, but she didn’t care enough to look. They lifted her into their arms, lying her down on a nest of pillows and blankets. Their fingers softly brushed hair out of Feyre’s face.

“What are you doing here, Feyre darling?”

Feyre sobbed, clutching her cloak tight. “You’re dead. You’re not real. You’re dead. Mama said you were dead.”

Rhys chuckled. “Do I look dead to you?”

Cracking open one eye, Feyre took him in. His inky black hair was mussed, his chest bare, his violet eyes narrowed in concern. His chest rose and fell, warm to the touch as Feyre reached out to place her palm flat against his heart and felt it beat steadily underneath.

She flung herself into his arms without warning, knocking them both over. Feyre didn’t care about anything else except kissing him.

His hands settled on her waist as he kissed her back, burning through layers of fabric. Rhys grinned at her, sliding his hands down to cup her ass through her dress as he rocked his hips up into hers. Feyre’s stomach tightened as she felt his hardening cock press up against her.

“Could a dead man do this?” he whispered with a smirk as he flipped them over, flicking the tip of her nose as he dragged his nose down the column of her neck.

“Or this?” he purred as he sat up and pulled Feyre into his lap, bunching up her skirts around her hips to grip her bare thighs. Rhys taunted her with the dead man comments, closing each one with a kiss to a different part of her body.

Before he could unlace his trousers, Feyre grabbed his hands and shook her head. She knew she shouldn’t and that her mother would be furious with rage when she returned.

Rhysand’s smile was soft as he kissed her again. This time his kiss was slow and sweet, none of the passion from before in it.

“Did you know,” Feyre murmured in a single breath, forcing him to meet her gaze. Rhys wrenched himself from her grip and looked away, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “You knew, didn’t you.”

It wasn’t a question.

His long blink told her all she needed to know.

Feyre shoved him back and stood, anger coursing through her veins. Hands in fists, she focused on the pain of her nails digging into her palms instead of the feeling of her heart splintering into a million pieces like the glass vase. Stomping to the deck, she slammed the hatch shut and threw the nearest coil of rope towards the other end of the boat. It was heavier than anything she had ever carried, but she still threw it anyway.

As she trudged home, her vision was blurry and stung with unshed tears while her heart bled out.

A worried Alis collected her at the main gate, talking to Feyre in a soothing voice and readying her to meet what would be her future husband.

Feyre dried her tears in the mirror, rolling back her shoulders and loosing a deep breath. The seafoam gown from Amren was simple enough, yet conservative in the ways those from the spring city dressed.

She hated it.

Standing next to her mother, Feyre played a game with Rosa until the lord’s horse trotted into the complex, his horse’s hooves clattering on the cobblestone. He dismounted, handing the reins of his palomino and his traveling cloak to a waiting stableboy.

“Greetings, signorina Feyre,” the lord said. “May I say, you are even more beautiful in person.” Feyre pasted on a fake smile as he greeted her, bowing to kiss her hand. He simply bowed to her mother, a hint of fear in his bright green eyes. Then he crouched to hold out his hands to Rosa, who whimpered and hid behind Feyre’s skirts.

“She’s shy,” Feyre explained as the blonde lord stood.

He wasn’t unattractive with the tailored doublet that clung to his body, luxurious long blonde hair, spring-green eyes, and full lips. No, he wasn’t unattractive at all. If Feyre’s heart didn’t still ache for Rhys, she supposed she could fall in love with the lord one day. Maybe.

But all she could think about were violet eyes and messy hair and his lips on hers.

“Signorina?” Lord Tamlin asked in confusion, like he had said her name multiple times and she hadn’t responded. Feyre took his offered arm with an apology, leading him to the courtyard where Nesta and Cassian’s wedding celebration was held. Alis followed with Rosa in her arms.

They sat on a stone bench, the silence between them awkward. Rosa broke it with a crash, toddering up to Feyre with a flower she clearly yanked from one of Elain’s plants and babbling gibberish happily.

“May I?” he asked nicely. He obviously wanted to pick up Rosa.

Feyre shrugged. “You can try.” Silently, she let herself laugh because Rosa hated anyone who wasn’t her mother, Alis, or her aunts picking her up. Cassian and Azriel were exceptions on rare, random occasions.

Try he did. Rosa took one look at his outstretched arms and scrambled away with an ear-piercing shriek. Feyre took her daughter into her arms, kissing the top of her head and murmuring into her ear nonsense meant to calm her down.

“Do I know her father? I keep getting this feeling that I do,” the lord mused, toying with a strand of his golden hair. “She looks so much like someone I used to know.”

Feyre stiffened. “No, I don’t believe you do,” she ground out.

There was a whole painful and bloody history between the two men, one she had no intention of reviving.

Their ensuing conversation was painfully polite and boring as fuck. Feyre wanted to bang her head against a wall. Surely it would be more interesting than listening to Tamlin talk about how great his manor Rosehall was. Finally, _finally_ , he bid her goodbye with a promise that he would return tomorrow.

Lucien sidled up to Feyre on the bench after the lord left with a foxy smirk. “He’s pretty,” he drawled. “I would fuck him.” His drawl turned into a whine. “Although I bet you half my year’s pay that he’s one of those types who is painfully only into women. And that he’s pretty on the outside, ugly on the inside.”

Feyre rolled her eyes. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Lucien. I hate him already.”

The redhead barked a laugh, squeezing Feyre’s shoulder before striding off to go annoy Elain, wherever she was. Anyhow, a week from now, Feyre would be on the road to Lord Tamlin’s estate outside of the spring city, never to see Rhys again.


	13. Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember, Tamlin is NOT the villain in this story before y’all come at me

Rhys watched from under the hood of his dark cloak as Tamlin helped Feyre and Rosa into the carriage, kissing Feyre’s cheek before the door shut. And she smiled. She fucking smiled at that golden bastard.

Feyre’s eyes widened in shock through the thin curtains as the carriage rolled past and Rhys threw his hood back. The lord was too far ahead to see anything. They held each other’s gazes until the carriage turned a corner and disappeared from view.

Now Rhys would officially be alone in Velaris for the next week. Cassian was at the Archeron villa with Nesta, Azriel was working on Elain’s painting in the Archeron complex, and Rhys? Well, Rhys was alone.

It still stung that Madonna Archeron told Feyre he was dead to get her to go with Tamlin easier, without less of a fuss. That was bullshit anyway.

The only reason she would go without a fight was if their daughter’s future was on the line. And knowing her mother, he wasn’t surprised.

Three days after Feyre left, Rhys received a letter from Tamlin’s estate. She told him she would return to Velaris for a week every month to visit her family. In the short letter, she apologised for her outburst that day on his fishing boat. _Our daughter deserves to know her real father._

That meant he would see Rosa more often. It was good.

Rhys wanted nothing to do with his father’s parenting style. Plus all the adults he knew growing up were the worst examples of how to be a good parent. Lord Soldato was an abusive tyrant that was the main reason Cassian spent over a year at sea. Azriel’s father allowed his own brothers to torture him and leave him with horrible scarring on his hands. Madonna Archeron threatened her daughters into doing what she wanted them to.

None of them planned on their children growing up the way they did.

Cassian hated his father and actively plotted his death. Nesta defied her mother every chance she could get. Azriel was one the best painters Velaris had ever seen. Rhys threw all the wealth and glory away (involuntarily) to become a fisherman on the Sidra. Elain fell in love with Azriel, he with her. Feyre got pregnant with Rhys’s child just before they planned to run away, forbidden from seeing him. None of them knew who Lucien’s real father was, but they imagined he would resent the redhead’s attraction to both men and women. Amren was orphaned as a child and grew up picking pockets until the seamstress took her in and taught her a craft. Mor seemed like the only one who was doing what was expected of her. She danced, she laughed, she drank, she fucked, all the while looking for a husband that would please her parents. Except for all of the show was to hide the fact that she loved women.

“We’re all doing just fucking fantastic, aren’t we?” Rhys grumbled to himself as he headed for his boat because the more he stood around contemplating the shitty hand life dealt him, the more money he lost by not catching fish.

* * *

Months passed quietly. Azriel worked on his painting of Elain and Nesta’s portrait. Madonna Archeron also commissioned him in advance for a family portrait of Nesta and Cassian and whatever children they had.

Although he didn’t think they were going to have any children anytime soon.

Azriel slipped his dagger under the wax seal pressed with the crest of Helion Day, unfolding the letter as he walked to his studio. Lord Helion wished for a portrait and would pay Azriel handsomely for it. Seeing as he was just putting the finishing touches on The Garden of the Maiden and Nesta’s portrait had been hung two weeks ago, he didn’t see why he shouldn’t accept.

The sound of Elain humming a sweet tune filled his studio as he stepped inside. Her eyes were closed as she danced to her song, her hips swaying in a motion not unlike the waves of the ocean. Azriel was captivated.

Leaning against the doorway, he crossed his arms and was more than content to watch her.

When she flung her arms out to spin, her skirts fluttering around her, she accidentally knocked over a wooden cup filled with brushes. Elain Archeron, who rarely ever swore, swore loudly.

“Fuck!” she cried out, kneeling to pick up the scattered brushes.

Azriel laughed softly from the doorway, the letter in his hand forgotten as Elain whipped around, her glare softening as she ran over and practically leapt into his arms. Her lips crashed into his, her fingers sliding through his hair. Elain in his arms, Azriel kicked the door shut and cleared the table with a swipe of his hand, laying her down.

There was no place in the world he wanted to be more than between her legs, her hand fisted in his hair and her legs over his shoulders with his name falling from her lips like a prayer.

The first time Elain begged him to fuck her, Azriel had been stunned. She didn’t seem at all like the type to want it hard and fast. But he obliged anyway, finding Elain was quite different in bed than she was during the day.

She moaned, squeezing her breasts through her dress to make herself come faster. Azriel knew exactly what she was doing and roughly flipped her over, sheathing himself in her from behind. The snarl of protest quickly turned into a breathless cry as his hips snapped into her, driving himself deeper into her. He tugged her flush against him, using one hand to steady them against the table and the other to flick over her hardening nipples.

Elain whimpered, her breath coming in fast, shallow pants as Azriel drove his cock into the spot guaranteed to make her come. And when she came, she came hard. Even he could feel the waves of pleasure rock her body and leave her quivering in his arms.

But he didn’t expect her to spin and shove him against the table, sinking to her knees and taking his cock into her mouth. Her eyes watered as she took him deeper, her nose brushing his skin. Azriel gripped the table with white knuckles, struggling not to fist his hand in her hair and thrust himself deeper down her throat. Elain sensed it, guiding his hand into her hair and looking up at him from beneath her lashes, blinking in silent permission.

Azriel spilled himself inside her mouth, her throat bobbing as she swallowed. Elain stood, wiping the back of her hand across her lips.

The past couple weeks he had noticed slight changes in her body. Her breasts seemed larger. The soft swell of her stomach was a bit softer. Her cheeks looked rounder, her skin glowing.

But they had been careful. Elain couldn’t be pregnant.

Could she?

“Azriel, it’s always been your dream to visit the sun city,” Elain gushed, the letter from Lord Helion in her hands. “You should go. WeーI’ll survive without you for a few months or weeks.”

Azriel noticed her shift in speech and frowned. “Elain.” She hummed in response. “Elain, look at me.” He pried the letter out of her hands, her caramel eyes narrowed in confusion. “Elain, don’t lie to me. Are you with child?”

“What? No, of course not. We’ve been careful,” Elain said quickly. Too quickly. “Don’t worry about me. You should go.”

He couldn’t see any lie in her eyes, but he was still worried. Elain could try to hide it all she wanted, but her body would expose her if she truly was carrying his child. The last thing he wanted for the woman he loved was for her to be forced to suffer the same way Feyre had.

Azriel pulled her into his arms, resting his chin on her head. “If you say you’re fine, amore, I’ll go.”

 _I love you_ danced on the tip of his tongue but he bit it back.

* * *

After Azriel left Velaris, Elain felt sick. She hadn’t meant to lie about the childーshe wasn’t even sure herselfーbut it just slipped out. Visiting the sun city was Azriel’s dream, she couldn’t take that away from him just because she might be pregnant.

But when she woke up sick to her stomach so many mornings, she knew.

Elain stood in front of the mirror with her robe loose, her pale skin shimmering in the glow of the candelabra. Water dripped from her hair, still wet from her bath. Cupping her breasts, she sighed. They were definitely heavier than before. More sensitive, too. She pressed her palm flat against her stomach, feeling the soft swell that was bigger than normal.

By no means was she lithe muscle like Nesta or slim like Feyre. Elain had always been curvier in places her sisters weren’t. When she was young, her mother pinched her skin, constantly complaining about Elain needing to lose weight. Too many times she was squeezed into one of Nesta’s old gowns, the seams splitting when she stopped sucking her stomach in and standing straight.

This shouldn’t have happened. They were so careful.

She could try the herbs to lose a baby, but as Elain turned to the side and held the slight swell of her stomach, she didn’t want to. This baby, it was just as much hers as it was Azriel’s.

He sent her letters every week he wasn’t there and Elain loved reading them. Lord Helion sounded like a man she would very much like to meet. She walked through the city in her mind, Azriel by her side. She wished she could visit him, but her mother would never allow it.

Feyre also sent letters from Rosehall. She and Tamlin were married shortly after they arrived and were expecting a child. In her letters to Nesta and Elain, she complained about Tamlin but said he treated her well. He never raised a hand against her and loved Rosa like she was his own.

Days turned into weeks, turning into months. Elain swore as she turned in the mirror. She couldn’t hide it anymore or pass it off as gaining weight: she was showing. Lucien chose that moment to barge into her room like he always did, his mouth falling open as he took her in. Azriel had been gone for three months. Elain figured she was about five months along by the way her stomach swelled.

“Elain!” Lucien hissed. “You’re pregnant!”

Tears filled her eyes and Elain hurriedly wiped them away. “No shit, Lucien,” she snarled. “I can’t hide it anymore.”

She let the tears fall as Lucien pulled her into his arms. He smoothed her hair and stroked soothing motions down her back, letting her cry for as long as she needed.

“What am I supposed to do?” she asked, her voice small.

Lucien joked, “You could always say it was mine. Your mother would be ecstatic.”

Elain whacked him upside the head, her lips twitching into a faint smile. “You disgust me, Lucien Vanserra.” Her smile faded. “I sent Azriel away to go do what he always dreamed of. I lied to him before he left. He could see the signs, and I lied to him. And he’s supposed to be coming back soon. How am I supposed to face him?”

She felt sick to her stomach. Azriel was the love of her life and she lied to him about something that would change both of their lives.

“Hey hey, Ellie. Azriel loves you. He will understand. I’ve been to the little parties where the boys get drunk on wine and spill their secrets. Azriel wants children, he said that one night when they managed to get him shit-faced. He wants to make cute little dark haired babies with you, Elain. And you would have to be blind to miss the signs on how much he loves you.”

The sob that slipped from her lips was a horrible, horrible sound. Then she gasped as she felt something. Lucien frowned in confusion. Elain took his hand and laid it flat against her swollen stomach. His face lit up as the baby kicked his hand.

“My my, Ellie. Azriel’s seed sure is strong shit,” Lucien laughed, shrieking as Elain whacked him upside the head again. But he greedily swiped Elain’s hand away, replacing it with his.

“Are you sure you can’t say it’s mine?” Lucien murmured, his voice soft with sorrow. “I’ve always wanted children.”

Elain pulled him close, hugging her best friend tight. His breath warmed her neck, making her hair flutter. “You can be my baby’s second father, okay? I wouldn’t want anyone else.”

“I love you, Ellie.”

“Love you too, Luce.”

Elain yawned, too tired to bother to kick her friend out. Anyhow, it wouldn’t be the first time Lucien had slept in her bed. They comforted the other with their presence.

He slept with her until the day Azriel was supposed to return. Lucien snored beside her as Elain was awoken by stabbing pains in her stomach. She bit her lip so hard she drew blood, whimpering in pain and sweating profusely. When she tried to move, her thighs were slick with something. Swiping her fingers through the wet warmth, Elain cried out as the pain began again. Her fingers were stained with blood.

Startling awake beside her, Lucien drew back the sheets and his face went white. Her nightgown was stained with crimson, the bedsheets too.

Azriel was supposed to return today. Elain was supposed to tell him about their baby.

“Breathe, Elain. Just breathe.” Lucien was frantic, his hands shaking and covered in blood. “I’m going to get Nesta. I’ll be back.”

Elain wanted to scream, but she knew she would wake the whole house up. There was so much blood.

Nesta ran in, skidding to a stop when she saw the blood. “Oh no, Lanie,” she breathed. Cassian and Lucien followed on her heels. Cassian chose to stand outside in the hall while Lucien held Elain’s hand. “Get me something warm,” she ordered the men. “Preferably hot. It will ease the cramping. And find Maria. Tell her to draw a hot bath.”

Nesta helped Elain peel off her bloodstained nightgown and step into the bath, her eyes lingering on the swell of Elain’s stomach. After her bath, Elain was dried and dressed in a clean nightgown and taken to sleep in Feyre’s old room. Nesta forced her to drink from a vial that made the room spin before everything went dark.

Groggily, Elain opened her eyes with a soft groan. Sunlight streamed through the window and two figures spoke in hushed tones by the door. They both turned when they heard she was awake. The midwife looked at Elain with pity, telling her what to expect now that she lost the baby.

The woman was interrupted by Azriel bursting through the door, his hair messy from days on the road. “Elain,” he breathed, his eyes lined with tears. Nesta pulled the midwife out of the room to give them privacy. Elain sobbed, reaching for Azriel as he reached for her.

“You lied to me,” he said, his eyes full of hurt.

Elain looked away. “I couldn’t keep you from going,” she whispered. “And when I realised it, you were already gone.”

Azriel’s voice was cold. “You could have at least told me, Elain. Do you know how I fucking terrified when I got back and the first words I hear out of Cassian’s mouth are _Elain lost the baby and she’s not doing well_? I didn’t even know!” Elain cringed at his shouting. His exhale was more of a huff as his body sagged. “Amore, you have to tell me these things. I should have been here.”

Elain didn’t try to stop him as he stormed out of the room, wincing as the door slammed behind him. Then the tears came like a dam had been broken and nothing could stop the river from flowing.

* * *

What Feyre hated most about being pregnant wasn’t the fact that she had to pee every five minutes, but rather that she didn’t fit into any of her fucking dresses. Tamlinーthe fucking blonde princeーwas the perfect gentleman to her. She hated it.

And now, with his child in her, she couldn’t be in the same room as him without snapping.

The poor servants of Rosehall were terrified of her. Tamlin spent most of his days working in the study, tumbling into their bed exhausted every night. Thankfully, he didn’t have the urge to try and stick his cock in her with her swollen stomach and too-sensitive breasts. If he tried, Feyre might just cut it off and feed it to his hounds.

She tossed and turned every night, unable to sleep as peacefully as the blonde lordling did beside her. Alis said she was carrying like she was going to have a boy. All Feyre knew was that she hated it.

Almost a year had passed since Feyre was sent to Rosehall. She still visited Velaris every month, barely glimpsing Rhys. And when she did see him, he was nothing but coldly polite and gladly went off on little adventures with Rosa. After Elain’s miscarriage, Elain discreetly avoided Feyre every time she was in Velaris. It stung more than she expected it to.

Rosa tugged on Feyre’s skirts as they strolled through the massive gardens. “Mama, when I see Da again?” she questioned, her nose crinkling as her eyebrows knitted together in frustration. Her baby was almost three. But Rosa wasn’t going to be her baby for much longer, seeing as Tamlin’s son was supposed to arrive in a few days.

“I don’t know, darling,” Feyre sighed, bracing a hand on her aching back. “Da’s far away. Anyhow, you’re about to have a brother or sister. Aren’t you excited?”

Rosa crossed her arms and pouted. “No. I wanna see Da.”

Feyre would never say it aloud, but her toddler was exactly the way she felt most days. Her hands were already full with Rosa. And now a second one was going to be thrust into her arms, fathered by a man she could barely stand. She missed Rhys. She missed his brine and citrus and lime. She missed his calloused hands, his violet eyes crinkling in laughter, his lips.

“Feyre?” Tamlin called, striding up to her with a bounce in his step. He kissed her cheek before rubbing her swollen stomach, bending to whisper to his son. Then he strolled arm-in-arm with Feyre back to the manor, where a guest was waiting for them.

Feyre stumbled and gasped when she saw him. Even turned around with a heavy traveling cloak on, she would recognise him anywhere. Rosa giggled and ran for him, shouting “Da!” over and over again.

Rhys turned around, picking his daughter up with a grin and tossing her into the air like she was weightless.

Tamlin stood unnaturally still, his green eyes burning with rage. “Rhysand fucking Campagna. Get out,” he snarled. He pushed Feyre behind him, his hand falling to the hilt of the sword at his side.

Rosa babbled happily in Rhys’s arms, pointing at Tamlin and making the icky face. Feyre coughed to hide her snort of laughter.

“Mother’s tits, Tamlin,” Rhys groaned. “I just want to visit my daughter. Feyre hasn’t been home in three months because you say she’s too pregnant to travel.”

“She’s my _wife_ ,” Tamlin snarled. “You’re just the river scum she happened to sleep with and then got her pregnant. And now she’s carrying my child, so I think I’m allowed to make decisions based on her well-being.”

Feyre backed away with wide eyes, Rosa running to her once Rhys set her down. She had hoped this day would never come. She hoped she could keep the two parts of her life separate. Now it was too late.

The men drew their swords, circling each other. Tamlin lunged first and Rhys danced out of the way. Their swords sparked and screamed as they collided. It was a deadly dance, complete with whirling silver. The beat was the sound of their panting breaths and their boots on the stone.

“Mama,” Rosa whimpered, clutching her skirts tightly, “you have accident.”

Feyre looked down and sure enough, her water had broken. The baby was coming, whether she wanted it to or not. She shouted for them to stop, but they ignored her. Telling Rosa to stay where she was, Feyre summoned her courage and stepped into the fight, their blades halting once she stood in their paths.

“Please, stop,” she begged. “Just stop. You can fight later. The baby’s coming.”

* * *

Cassian pushed open the door to their room, seeing Nesta still asleep. It was rare she slept in. Most mornings they sparred before the rest of the household woke up. Her hair shone golden in the shaft of sunlight, her face peaceful. He had the sudden urge to brush her hair off her face, but he shoved it down. She might still murder him if he tried that.

Her soft groan as she shifted was one of pain.

Shoving down the nagging thought that she might castrate him, Cassian reached out to gently shake her shoulder. Her eyes fluttered open, the stormy blue glazed in pain. When he pressed the back of his hand to her forehead, she was burning up.

“Nesta, sweetheart, wake up and tell me what’s wrong,” Cassian murmured. Inside, he was panicking. He knew her cycle was meant to start this week, but for the near year they had been married it was never like this. Of course the cramps came every month, but they weren’t painful enough to leave her bedridden. In a very Nesta-like manner, she just grit her teeth and went on with her life as usual. “Come on, sweetheart. Talk to me.”

Nesta reached for his hand and pressed his palm to her cheek. “You’re warm,” she muttered with a delirious smile. Then she dragged his hand down and pressed it to her lower stomach. Underneath his palm was bare skin and he blushed crimson.

A few minutes later, she sighed with an irritated huff. “Take your shirt off and get in bed,” she ordered.

Cassian chuckled. “If you wanted to get me naked, all you had to do was ask, sweetheart.”

She whacked his chest, rolling her eyes. As soon as he was settled, she shifted so her back was pressed into his chest. Nesta took his hands and settled them on her stomach, splaying them wide.

“Good,” she hummed. “You’re so warm. Don’t move.” Her words started to blend together as she drifted off.

Cassian waited for the moment she would wake up and snarl at him or threaten to cut off his balls like she did almost every other day. But it never came.

When she woke up hours later lying on top of him, she didn’t say anything. His arms had gone numb, so he decided to carefully roll her over and lay her on top of him, making sure her stomach was flat against his, the warmest part of his body.

Nesta had the cutest little yawnーnot that he would ever tell her that. When she sat up, her knees on either side of his hips and her hands braced against his chest, he wanted her to stay there forever.

“Are you feeling better?” Cassian asked, rubbing his thumbs in small circles over her forearms. Nesta nodded, yawning again. “That’s good, sweetheart.”

“Thank you, Cassian,” she replied, climbing off their bed to slip into her fancy riding pants.

He tried not to stare at her back as she changed, but the way her muscles rippled in the sunlight entranced him. Her eyes met his in the mirror as she bound her chest; he looked away.

A knock on the door echoed through the room and Azriel poked his head in. He nodded to Nesta, holding it open so she could walk through. Once she was far enough down the stairs that she wouldn’t hear, Azriel shook his head with a half-smile.

“You look like a love-sick puppy, Cass. Get it together.”

Cassian threw a pillow at his brother, who only laughed. “Get out,” he hissed in mock anger. Azriel was still on rocky terms with Elain after everything that happened, so Cassian knew better than to poke that open wound. He knew the painting hung on Elain’s wall by her bed, but also that she had thrown a sheet over it because it hurt too much to see it.

Pulling his tunic from earlier on, Cassian tromped down the stairs and followed Azriel and his wife to the training ring, where he sat down to watch them while he waited for his turn. The blindfold across Nesta’s eyes was black as ink and Azriel moved like a shadow, making no sound. Yet she still handed him his ass. Cassian couldn’t help but laugh. Azriel was one of the most skilled swordsman he knew, and Nesta Archeron soundly beat him.

“My turn.”

Azriel yielded the ring to Cassian, who tied up his hair and unsheathed his Illyrian windsword, settling into a steady stance. Then Nesta attacked, her eyes full of a white hot fire that only spurred Cassian on. Her delicate sword clashed against his, then they pulled back to circle the other, drawn back in like the rhythm of a dance. He hooked her ankle with his boot, sending her sprawling to the ground. She threw her sword to Azriel, who easily caught it. Then her grin turned wicked as she unsheathed the two Illyrian daggers he and Azriel gave her as wedding gifts, twirling them a few times for show before attacking.

Cassian ended up flat on his back in the dirt with Nesta’s knees on either side of his waist, one of her daggers held at his groin and the other in the dirt somewhere with his windsword. His hands were pinned above his head by her other hand.

“Call it,” she panted.

“We’re not done yet, sweetheart,” Cassian smirked, bucking his hips up. She lost her balance and he took that opportunity to utilize the move he learned a long time ago from his mother before she died. Before Nesta could blink, Cassian was kneeling on her back with her arm twisted painfully behind her.

His mother had originally taught it to him as something he would one day teach his baby cousin. It was meant to utilize a man’s own strength against him if he was ever trying to force himself on someone.

Cassian held out a hand, lifting Nesta to her feet. Then he brushed the dirt from her face, dancing away with a grin as she swatted at him. 

Azriel sighed from his spot where he sat cross-legged on the ground. His eyes were covered. “Are you done yet? Because it looked a hell of a lot like you two were fucking.”

 _Gods, I wish,_ Cassian hissed under his breath. “Yes, poor baby Azzy, we’re done. We all know my darling wife would sooner cut off my balls than fuck me.”

Nesta huffed a low laugh, lifting the hem of her tunic to wipe away the sweat from her face. Then she groaned, doubling over and pressing her hands to her stomach. Azriel looked at Cassian in panic, not knowing what was happening or what to do.

Cassian wordlessly told Azriel to oil their swords and tidy up as he scooped Nesta into his arms. She didn’t stop him, her eyes squeezed shut as she panted heavily. A whimper slipped from her lips, a sound he had never heard before.

“It hurts, Cass,” she cried, tears rolling down her cheeks as she buried her face into his tunic. “It hurts so fucking bad.”

As he very quickly strode through the compound, he nodded to Maria and headed for their room. Not long after, Madja, the midwife Nesta called for Elain, arrived. She gave Nesta a drought made of herbs to ease her pain, dragging Cassian out to the hall after her.

“Stay with her until the cramps subside,” Madja ordered. Handing Cassian a small pouch filled with glass vials, she gave him instructions. “Give her one vial every twelve hours as long as she needs it. If possible, try to get her to walk around the compound; it will help with the pain. Anything warm will ease the pain.” The midwife paused to glance around, seeming satisfied no one was there. Her voice was low enough Cassian had to bend over to hear her. “I know a few women in the city who say pleasuring themselves helps with the pain as well.” Her tone returned to normal. “Very well. I will return tomorrow morning.”

Cassian was left standing in the hall with a pouch of pain tonic in his hand, wondering why the midwife told him what she did. Nesta was asleep when he stepped back inside, curled up in a ball under the heavy blankets. Her breathing was fairly even, but her brows were knotted in pain even as she slept.

The Viper of Velaris looked so young and innocent.

When she groaned and whimpered in pain, he kissed her forehead softly and brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His wife seemed to relax, the tension flooding out of her body. “I’m here with you, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I’m not going anywhere. You’ll be alright.”


	14. Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nessian’s gettin there they’re gonna take their sweet time tho

Tamlin hated Rhysand Campagna.

To see the violet-eyed bastard standing in his foyer made Tamlin want to throttle him. The urge only increased dramatically as little Rosa ran for Rhysand, crying “Da!” and being picked and tossed into the air with with a happy giggle.

He had always had a nagging thought in the back of his mind that Rosa looked so much like someone he knew, but dismissed it as nothing. Now that the little girl babbled happily in her father’s arms, Tamlin saw the resemblance clear as day.

Tamlin stood unnaturally still, burning with rage. “Rhysand fucking Campagna. Get out,” he snarled. He pushed Feyre behind him, his hand falling to the hilt of the sword at his side.

“Mother’s tits, Tamlin,” Rhys groaned. “I just want to visit my daughter. Feyre hasn’t been home in three months because you say she’s too pregnant to travel.”

“She’s my _wife_ ,” Tamlin snarled. “You’re just the river scum she happened to sleep with and then got her pregnant. And now she’s carrying my child, so I think I’m allowed to make decisions based on her well-being.”

The men drew their swords, circling each other. Tamlin lunged first and Rhys danced out of the way. Their swords sparked and screamed as they collided. It was a deadly dance, complete with whirling silver. The beat was the sound of their panting breaths and their boots on the stone.

Tamlin was proud to say he was a skilled swordsman and cleanly evaded Rhysand’s haphazard jabs, even though the fisherman had brute strength on his side. He stumbled back a few steps after Rhys slammed his sword down onto his. With a snarl that was purely animalistic, he swung.

Eyes widening, Tamlin stopped his blade just before it cleaved his wife’s head from her shoulders. Rhysand’s blade clattered to the ground and skittered away. Feyre stood between them, anguish flooding her features. 

“Please, stop,” she begged. “Just stop. You can fight later. The baby’s coming.”

_The baby’s coming._

Tamlin sheathed his sword and called for a servant to fetch the midwife. By the time he turned back to look, Rhys was already steadying Feyre from behind with one hand in hers and the other on her waist. Rosa looked near to tears watching her mother be guided away.

“Rosa, darling,” Tamlin crouched to pick her up, “come with me. Let’s go with Mama, yes?”

Rosa’s bottom lip jutted out as she pouted, but she let Tamlin pick her up and follow Feyre and Rhysand. Her little hands fisted in his doublet, her sniffling loud in the empty hallways.

By the time they arrived, Feyre had been stripped of her gown and was propped up against the pillows in nothing but her white shift. Servants fussed around her, shooing Rhys away to sit on the settee so he would be out of the way. Tamlin was kicked in that direction as well once Alis saw him standing in the doorway. Rhys gently took Rosa from his arms, soothing her with whispered nonsense as he sat back down.

The midwife arrived, her black hair streaked with grey and pulled back into a tight bun. Her eyes narrowed at Tamlin and Rhys. Feyre swore filthily as contractions hit her.

“Which one of you is the father?” the old woman demanded to know. Tamlin nodded. “Both of you, get out. If she really wants you here, you can stay. But my rules are no men in the room while the mother gives birth. Out, now.”

Tamlin and Rhys gave each other the same confused look then glared. The midwife shoved them out the door and slammed it in their faces. Rosa’s lower lip wobbled before she burst into tears. Rhys distracted her from her tears with a game while Tamlin retrieved her doll and blanket from her room down the hall. The little girl reached for her doll and curled up in her father’s lap, eyes shutting as she fell asleep.

Neither man said a word to the other as they sat side-by-side in the hall outside Feyre’s room. It lasted hours. They heard her swear and scream and curse Tamlin, then it was quiet. The quiet lasted too long to be comfortable before it was shattered with the cry of a newborn child.

Jumping to his feet, Tamlin pounded on the door. The midwife glowered but let him in. “You have a healthy baby boy, my lord,” she told him, gesturing toward Feyre.

Feyre cradled a bundle of pale green cloth in her arms, barely glancing up at Tamlin when he sat on the edge of their bed. His little boy was the spitting image of him, complete with wisps of golden hair and eyes as green as spring grass. He blinked up at his father slowly, yawning wide.

“Do you have a name for him?” Tamlin asked his wife, enraptured by the tiny creation in her arms.

Her nod was slight. “Giuliano.”

Giuliano cooed, his chubby fingers wrapping around Tamlin’s pointer finger. The door opened and Rhys padded through with a sleepy Rosa in his arms. She rubbed her eyes with little fists, stretching and yawning. When she saw her mother, she squirmed to be let down and curled up against Feyre’s other side.

Rosa little nose scrunched up as she looked at her brother, seeming disgusted. “Mama, he’s ugly,” she declared. As Feyre shook her head and smiled, Tamlin couldn’t help but laugh. Even Rhys chuckled.

In the moment as both menーnow both fathersーgazed at the mother of their children, past injustices were forgotten with the cry of a new life.

* * *

Azriel paused as he shut the door to his studio in the Archeron compound, the last trunk of supplies being loaded onto the wagon by the stableboy. It was time for him to move on, travel to another city and get lost in his art.

The unofficial king of Adriata would pay Azriel handsomely for his services. He had heard only good things about Tarquin and his family.

Sparing one last glance at the nearly empty room, the memories barreled into him. Slamming the door shut, Azriel leaned against the door and steadied his breathing. If he looked back, his heart would shatter all over again.

He still loved Elain. But she hurt him by lying.

Nesta was like the sister he never had. Cassian was his brother in all but blood.

Lucien looked at Azriel with hostility.

Azriel flipped the hood to his traveling cloak up and headed for the stables. The ship bound for Adriata was scheduled to leave at dawn tomorrow. He wanted to be settled on the ship long before the anchor was drawn up.

Nesta and Cassian waited near their horses, not talking but standing closer together than they normally did. They would help him load his belongings onto _The Ocean Crown_ then return to the compound. But he knew they would watch from he docks as he sailed away the next morning.

Shadow nickered as Azriel ran a hand down his neck, reins in one hand. He noticed another enter the stables and saw Cassian drag Nesta out. That meant it could only be one person.

“Hello Azriel,” Elain said. Even without turning around, he knew she would be wringing her hands together.

Azriel slowly turned, seeing Elain standing there in a dusky pink dress that only made his heart ache. She opened her mouth to speak then closed it again, nibbling on her bottom lip. He couldn’t do it.

Thank the Mother Shadow was already saddled so he could easily swing himself up into the saddle. Shadow shook his head, prancing in place before Azriel guided him toward the gate.

It was like Elain stepped out of the shadows, taking hold of Shadow’s reins and stroking his nose to calm him down. Azriel’s traitorous horse bumped Elain’s shoulder, nickering softly as he looked for treats.

Dismounting, Azriel stalked over to stand in front of her.

“Why are you here, Elain?” he questioned, voice cold.

Her caramel eyes flicked up to meet his. Her voice was quiet. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for a thousand things. But I will never apologise for loving you, Azriel.”

He reeled for a second but kept the swirling pit in his gut hidden, preventing any emotion from flickering across his face.

She continued anyway. “I understand you need to leave. Just one thing for me before you go, please.” Elain took his scarred hands in his, holding tight. “Tell me you don’t love me. Tell me it was all a lie.”

Azriel sucked in a breath, chewing the inside of his cheek. He couldn’t lie to her like she did to him. It would break his heart even further.

“I can’t,” he breathed so low he could barely hear himself.

Elain stumbled backward, his hands slipping from her grip. Her eyes were wide, tears streaming down her cheeks. “You should have lied,” she hissed. “It would have hurt less.”

“Fine,” Azriel spat. “I never loved you, Elain. I was only faking everything between us and using you for your body to further my own reputation as Velaris’s greatest artist. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

He caught her wrist before she could slap him.

* * *

Elain barely realised what was happening before Azriel’s scarred hand held her wrist tight. His face was ice cold in fury, whereas she burned with it.

Blood raced through her body, her heart thundering with how close they were. They had tiptoed around the other for the past few months, never quite acknowledging the other and the pain they caused.

“Let me go,” Elain ordered.

Azriel’s lips curled up into a cross between a smirk and a sneer. “Are you going to try to attack me again?”

“Why don’t you let me go and find out?”

He let go.

Elain fisted her hands in the front of his tunic, roughly pulling his lips to hers. He stiffened then relaxed into her, his tongue teasing the seam of her lips. It felt so natural to kiss him, his mouth slanting over hers as she stood on her toes to reach him.

Too soon, he pulled away.

“I have to go, amore.”

Oh how easily it slipped from his lips, sending Elain’s pulse skittering under her skin.

“Azriel, I will wait for you,” Elain promised. “Come back to me.”

He turned around to look back once before his horse cantered out of the gates and into the streets of Velaris.

A scoff came from the darkness of the hall as her mother stepped into the stables. “A disgrace. Don’t think I didn’t know all about you losing his child. At least there’s no permanent evidence of your deflowering like Feyre. Bless the Mother for small miracles.” She pulled a vial of dark liquid from a pocket of her dress, holding it up to the light. “What a tragedy you lost your child, my sweet Elain. I honestly didn’t know if it would work so late, but I am quite pleased that it did.”

Elain stood shock still. “No,” she breathed. “You didn’t.”

“Too bad your painter is leaving for Adriata. It’s so far away and the seas can be treacherous this time of year.”

Blood dripped from Elain’s fist as her nails broke through the skin of her palm. The pain grounded her. Silently, she prayed for the Mother’s forgiveness as she grabbed the dagger Nesta insisted she carry with her and lunged for her mother with a roar.

Time slowed to a crawl.

Elain shoved her mother back against the wall, pressing the blade of her dagger into the woman’s throat. She was going to murder her own mother. First Madonna Archeron poisoned Elain so that she would lose the baby, then she sent Azriel away to die at sea, able to blame his death on the temper of the sea god.

Cassian ran in and pulled her away, wrenching the dagger out of Elain’s hands and holding her back. Elain screamed and thrashed in his arms. It took both her older sister and her brother-in-law to restrain her. They held her until the anger flooded away, her body sagging to the straw.

Madonna Archeron was long gone.

Nesta sank to the ground and pulled Elain into her arms. Elain couldn’t hold back the tears any longer, her sobs ugly and tearing from her throat as she wept into her sister’s chest. She allowed Cassian to carry her to her bed and Lucien to help her undress and pull the blankets up. She stared through them blankly, her lips sealed. Not a single word passed through them.

Her sister knocked softly, sitting on the edge of the bed and handing Elain a mug of mulled wine. “Drink this,” she said, her voice soft. “We’ll be here when you wake up, little Lanie. I love you.”

Elain let her eyes fall closed, welcoming the sweet embrace of darkness. It felt so much like Azriel she wanted to cry. She knew if she feigned sleep they would leave her alone. All she wanted was to be alone. So much had happened and she needed to catalog and store it away like she did information on new plants.

* * *

Nesta couldn’t believe it. She and Cassian had been squeezed up against one another in the tack room, too close for comfort as they tried not to listen to Azriel and Elain’s conversation. Then she heard her mother and the truth that fell from her lips. She was the cause behind Elain losing the baby.

It took both of them to hold her little sister back, murder in her eyes.

Now Elain was asleep with Lucien dozing on the settee until the awoke. Nesta paced back and forth across the carpet in front of her bed, wondering how exactly she could quietly remove her mother from her and her sisters’ lives without tarnishing the reputation of the Archeron bank. Her husband grumbled unhappily and flipped onto his stomach with a huff, squishing the pillow down over top of his head.

The bed squeaked and Nesta bit back her scream as Cassian tugged her back onto their bed, using his body weight to pin her down. “Go to sleep,” he grumbled. “I wanna sleep. I’m tired.” It only took a few minutes for him to fall asleep. On top of her.

Squirming, Nesta tried to lift him off of her but he was just so godsdamned heavy. Groaning, she accepted her fate with a heavy sigh. His nose was tucked into the crook her neck, his stubbled cheek flat against her throat. He was also warm. Very warm. So warm it made her drowsy.

She tried to fight it, but it was impossible.

Nesta couldn’t breathe. His hand was wrapped around her throat tight enough to make her dizzy from the loss of air and so she couldn’t scream. With the other he struggled to untie the laces of his trousers. It was dark, so dark only the faint glow of the stars and distant flicker of a flame allowed her to see his face. But she knew that voice. It snaked down her spine like cold oil. No one would bother them in the dark alley. Any passerby thought they were just two lovers lost in the throes of passion.

She bucked and thrashed, trying to escape. He slammed her against the wall with a snarl, her head hitting the stone so hard everything went black.

When she came to, Tomas Mandray hovered above her, her hands tied together above her head. She frantically glanced around the room, panicking more by the second. His grip on her thighs was iron as he tried to spread them apart.

His finger dragged down the side of her face and she tried to distance herself from his touch as much as possible. _Come on, Archeron, he crooned. You’ll like it, I promise. If you stop fighting I’ll untie you._ She sagged into the bed, her body limp. He untied her hands and she rubbed the raw skin around her wrists from the rope.

_Good girl._

Nesta squeezed her eyes shut and turned her head to the side. He ignored it, focusing more on fighting with the skirts of her dress. Eyeing a dagger on the nightstand within her reach, Nesta slowly reached for it. One wrong move and she wouldn’t be walking out of his room alive.

She knew the stories. Mandray had a penchant for girls younger than him and if they fought back it didn’t end well for them.

Closing her hand around the hilt of the dagger, she waited for the right moment. He thought he tamed her with a few words. He was so, so wrong.

He thrust into her, the pain so great Nesta bit her cheek so hard she tasted blood. He was so focused on his own pleasure he never noticed the arc of silver until blood from the long gash across his chest dripped onto her thighs.

 _You fucking bitch!_ he roared, yanking the dagger from her hands and pinning her to the bed so she couldn’t move a muscle. Then he dragged the tip from her ear down her throat all the way down until he stopped just above her heart. Nesta screamed in pain, her voice returned.

A different voice, although still male, called her name.

Nesta threw him off, still half submerged in her nightmare. She grabbed the dagger from her nightstand and held it against his throat.

Hazel eyes flared wide in the pale glow of the full moon.

“Nesta, it’s me,” he panted. “Cassian. I’m not going to hurt you. Nesta, I’m right here.”

Her hand shook, the dagger falling from her fingertips. Nesta tried to blink back the tears, but one escaped and forged a path down her cheek anyway. He moved so slowly, his hand slowly reaching up to cup her cheek and to wipe away the single tear with his thumb. She didn’t try to stop him. 

Too many years she suffered the nightmare alone. Too many years she woke up drenched in a cold sweat, her heart pounding so hard she feared it might break through her skin. She could still feel the tip of his dagger dragging down her skin, leaving fire and blood and pain in its wake.

“You don’t have to tell me unless you want to,” he murmured, pulling back to watch her reaction. “I’m here for you.”

Nesta’s breath shuddered. She hugged her knees to her chest, her cheek resting on her knee. They stayed that way for a minute, Nesta suffering alone and Cassian watching helplessly because he didn’t know the pain she suffered from.

Her voice was quiet. “Tomas Mandray raped me nine years ago. He gave me the scar on my neck.”

Cassian’s eyes blazed in anger. Nesta loosed a long breath, curling into an even smaller ball. Then she unwound herself and slipped off the bed, padding over to stand on the balcony in just her nightgown, even in the dead of winter. The blustering winter winds whipped her hair around, snowflakes sharp as knives as they landed on her bare skin.

She felt him follow her. “I understand if you want nothing to do with me now. No one believed me.”

A blanket was wrapped around her, filling the air with the scent Nesta had come to recognize as her husband’s. He rested his forearms on the balcony railing next to her, standing close enough to be comforting if she wanted it.

“I believe you.” His voice was soft as he stared at the streets of Velaris sprawling out into the night.

Those three words held more weight than Nesta expected and broke the impenetrable stone walls she had been building for years. No one besides her sisters had ever believed her. Her parents blamed the wound on her neck as being careless with a blade. Even her sisters were skeptical. It took weeks for them to believe her.

The tears flowed hot and fast, burning her skin compared to the icy chill in the air. Cassian startled when she crashed into him and wrapped her arms around him but held her tight. His touch was steadying, the heat radiating from his body warming her. Nesta felt safe in his arms.


	15. Fourteen

Rosa couldn’t stop bouncing in her seat next to Feyre. They were on their way back to Velaris to visit her family and introduce four-month old Giuliano to them. Rhys had returned to the city of starlight shortly after Giuliano was born. He and Tamlin were on somewhat peaceful terms with one another after she gave birth.

Feyre barely stepped out of the carriage before Rosa almost knocked her over, barreling straight into her father. She squealed as he tickled her and threw her over his shoulder. Rhys strode over to kiss her cheek and make a face at Giuliano, currently swaddled in his mother’s arms.

Tamlin glared at Rhys but nothing more than that.

Maria bowed low, gesturing for another servant to gather their belongings. “Milord, milady, signor.” She led Feyre and her little entourage toward the gardens. “Your sisters are waiting for you, milady.” With that, she vanished.

The garden was vibrantly green, grass flattening beneath Feyre’s slippers. A pleasant floral aroma swirled in the air. The fountain burbled happily. It was peaceful.

Cassian surprised Feyre, taking her son from her arms and parading around with him as Feyre tried to calm her racing heart. When she finally caught up to him, he and Nesta stood with their heads bowed and Nesta happily cooed to Giuliano. Cassian’s hand was braced on the small of Nesta’s back.

 _That’s new_ , Feyre thought to herself. The last time she was in Velaris her older sister still couldn’t stand her husband. The look in her brother-in-law’s eyes as he looked at his wife was one Feyre had been on the receiving end of so many times with Rhys. She made fun of him for it, but secretly she loved it.

Guiliano was passed to Elain next, sitting on the stone bench quietly. Her smile was faint as the baby giggled and grabbed ahold of her finger. She handed him back to Tamlin, a shadow crossing over her face when she thought no one was looking.

Feyre missed her sisters. They both had their own lives here in the city.

Dinner was uneventful, her mother making no snide comments at both Rhysand and Tamlin sitting at her dinner table. Lucien talked enough for three people, chattering nonsense about the city and the other noble families of the city and the drama associated with them.

A servant whispered something to Elain, who abruptly shoved back her chair and left. Nesta and Lucien shared a look that Feyre didn’t understand the meaning of. She hated being out of the loop. Obviously things happened while she was gone that she missed, but she wished they would tell her.

The end of the week came sooner than expected and Feyre bid her sisters goodbye. Rosa didn’t want to leave, putting up as much of a fight as she could until Tamlin picked her up and sat her in the carriage next to Feyre. She pouted the entire way back to Rosehall.

* * *

Elain sipped from her glass of wine, wishing the customary family dinner would be over already. She was thankful Lucien filled up the silence with chatter.

“Signor Romano’s ship has docked,” a servant whispered in her ear.

Elain shoved back her chair and left the room, not caring what the others thought. Azriel was back.

A light spring drizzle covered Velaris in a misty haze.

Dahlia’s breath steamed in the air as she cantered through the city, prancing back and forth at the docks. Elain dismounted and fixed her skirts, holding her horse’s reins loosely. Dark skinned men and women flowed around her, each having their own destination in mind.

There he was. Standing at the end of the ramp looking around. Then his eyes met hers and Elain dropped Dahlia’s reins, pushing her way through the throngs of people. Azriel dropped his bag, catching her easily. He spun her around twice, his arms tight around her waist. Elain threw her arms around his neck and buried her nose into the collar of his cloak, inhaling his scent and committing it to memory. Azriel held her close, refusing to set her down and let go of her.

Steady on her own two feet, Elain pulled his head down and pressed her lips to his. He pulled her close, one hand cupping her face and the other against the small of her back.

“Oi! You two! Get a fuckin room!” the captain yelled from the ship’s deck, shaking his head as he disappeared from view.

Elain’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. When she looked at Azriel, he was just as red as she was.

One of the crew tapped Azriel’s shoulder. “Your horse, signor,” he said, handing Shadow’s reins over. He quickly thanked the man, turning back to Elain.

“Let’s go home,” he murmured, keeping her fingers entangled with his as his lips twitched into a shy smile.

Instead of returning to the Archeron compound like Elain expected, they stopped outside of a quaint little house on the bank of the Sidra. Inside was cramped, but not in a way that made her feel trapped. To her left was a small receiving room, a well-worn sofa and hand-carved table the main pieces. Some of his artwork hung on the walls. Most were landscapes of places Elain dreamed of one day visiting. To her right was a small kitchen where everything was impeccably organized.

Azriel led her upstairs, which was all one room. His bed was positioned in one corner. A very crowded bookshelf sat a few feet away near a simple wooden table that served as his desk. On the other side were easels and the supplies to make his own paint and stretch his own canvasses.

Elain sat on the edge of his bed, the damp cotton of her dress sticking to her skin. She hadn’t noticed her chill until he pulled a thick wool blanket from a drawer in his wardrobe and arranged it over her shoulders. Then he proceeded to start a fire in the hearth, cursing when the sparks didn’t immediately light the kindling.

“How was Adriata?” Elain wondered. “Was it as warm as everyone says? Even in winter? Ooh, what was King Tarquin like? Are the stories about him true?” She realised she was rambling but didn’t quite care enough to stop.

His warm chuckle forced her to stop talking. Then he was sitting down next to her, kissing the top of her head. “Adriata was beautiful. Everything is built from white sandstone and no matter where in the city you are, you can always hear waves crashing on the beach. Yes, it’s warm. Even in winter. Sunny too. Tarquin is more generous than many other rulers. He genuinely cares for his people. He reminded me of you, Elain.”

She frowned in confusion, twisting to look at the painter. “Why?”

“He cares for the people of Adriata like you care for your plants. No one is neglected and everyone is held at the same level of honor and respect. I would like to take you there one day.”

Elain hummed in agreement. More than anything, she wanted to visit the city where the ocean sparkled a vibrant blue and the people pounded drums and danced in the streets as it rained. But her mother would never allow her. Even now, when she was stripped of most of her power, she still controlled her daughter’s lives.

“Azriel,” Elain began, “there’s something I need to tell you. My mother, umーmy mother poisoned me. She was the reason I lost our baby. After you left, she told me. I was a disgrace in her eyes. The one redeeming factor was I miscarried, so there was no permanent evidence.”

He wiped away her tears, kissing her forehead softly. “You’re perfect, at least in my eyes. I’m so sorry I left. While I was gone I realized everything I ever needed in my life was right here.” Choking down a sob, Elain curled closer to him. “I love you.”

She had waited so long to hear him say those three words.

“I love you.” She smiled through the tears, his lips soft against hers. Elain would never let her mother come between her and Azriel ever again. That, she promised herself silently.

* * *

Even now, Rhys was still confused. He and Tamlin couldn’t stand each other. They almost murdered each other in the blonde lordling’s foyer before Feyre intervened.

After the birth of Giuliano, everything changed.

Rhys and Tamlin weren’t at each others’ throats, but they also weren’t friends. They were aquantanices. That was the best he could come up with to describe their relationship.

Docking his boat and tying the rope tight, Rhys hopped off and onto the slippery wooden planks. The fish merchant who always bought from him tapped his foot impatiently, his lips pursed into what Rhys swore was a permanent frown. Coins and fish exchanged hands. It was a mutually exclusive agreement. Rhys supplied the old man with fish, he paid Rhys well.

Cassian slid on the water puddling on the docks, crashing into Rhys. Azriel followed him, treading carefully.

“RHYSIE!” Cassian bellowed, the bottle of wine in his fist half-empty.

When Rhys looked to Azriel for an explanation, Azriel shrugged. “It’s his second bottle. At least that he’s drunk in my presence. Don’t ask me. I’m not in charge of him, he’s a grown man.”

Rhys fixed Cassian with his best fatherly lookーone that normally had Rosa pouting because she got caught. “Shouldn’t you be with Nesta?” he asked, struggling to keep Cassian upright. His friend was only a few inches taller than him but by the gods he was heavy. All that muscle was now a pain in Rhys’s ass.

Cassian pouted, his lower lip wobbling. “She hates my guts at the moment. And I like my balls.”

Azriel and Rhys shared a collective groan, not even bothering to wonder what their friend did this time. They each took one of Cassian’s arms, hauling him upright and back toward the Archeron compound. When Cassian realized where they were going he whined, digging his heels into the stone of the street.

Antonio met them outside the alley gate, shaking his head. “He’s not allowed in at the moment. Sorry, boys.”

They turned around to leave when they heard glass shattering from inside. Cassian wrenched himself from their grip, pushing past Antonio. Azriel, Rhys and the guard could do nothing but follow.

Rhys was the first to run into Cassian. Azriel avoided collision at the last second. Antonio skidded to a stop but not soon enough, seeing as he crashed into Rhys.

“What the fuck?” Cassian hissed.

Nesta, Elain, Amren, and a dark-skinned woman with elaborate braids and gold jewelry stared at them, a deck of cards on the table. A broken wine glass lay in pieces on the floor by Amren.

“Mother’s tits,” Nesta swore. “Are you drunk?”

“No?” Cassian offered.

“Yes,” Rhys and Azriel chorused, receiving a scathing glare from Cassian. “Cass said you hated his guts. And were threatening his balls,” Rhys chimed in. Nesta was scary and he didn’t even have anything to drink yet. He definitely wanted to be on her good side.

Antonio sighed and walked away with a defeated look.

Azriel went to Elain, kissing the top of her head.

Nesta dragged Cassian to sit down next to her on the divan. He pouted as she pried the bottle of wine from his grip and took a long swig. “Alright, Em. Redeal the cards. We can make room for three more, yes?”

The woman’s laugh was bright. “Of course,” she grinned. Her voice was gravelly and Rhys didn’t recognise the accent. “I think we’ll need more wine, though.”

Amren scoffed. “I was winning. But yes, have the peasants bring me more wine. The good shit.”

Rhys was forced to share the sofa with Amren, who looked like she would stab him if he tried to look over her shoulder at her cards. She ignored him as long as he didn’t try to pour himself any wine from the bottle she claimed as hers. By the end of the night, Rhys was significantly poorer and Elain preened behind a stack of coins so massive it nearly spilled off the table.

* * *

Yawning, Nesta shoved a very drunk Cassian up the stairs to their bedroom. She and Emerie shared a bottle of wine while playing, so they weren’t quite sober but were leaning towards tipsy.

“Are you gonna cutoffmyballs?” Cassian whined, leaning most of his weight onto her and nearly knocking them both backwards.

Nesta bit back her snort. “Just because you broke that vase? No. It was ugly and I didn’t like it anyway.”

“Tha’s good. I like my balls.”

Cassian collapsed onto the bed, not even bothering to take off his boots. Disgusted, Nesta shook him until he grumbled and pulled off his boots and tunic. She turned around as he changed into the loose linen pants he slept in, trading her dress for a nightgown.

He stared at her with a sleepy smile as she crawled onto the bed and pulled back the blankets. It was normal for Nesta to lay down and then for her husband to position himself behind her. It kept the nightmares at bay.

His bare chest was warm against her back as he tangled her legs with his.

“Nessa?” he whispered. “I gotta secret.”

Nesta rolled over, struggling to keep a straight face. He was adorable when he was sleepy and drunk. “Do tell.”

“I love you.” He sounded so proud of himself. “I wanna kiss you. Can I kiss you?”

Realization hit her like a bucket of ice cold water. She was in love with Cassian. And she had been falling for him since the night she held her sword to his throat. Deep down, she knew the exact moment she loved him was that night on the balcony after she woke up from her nightmare.

“Nessa? Did I do something wrong?” he asked quietly, his face falling.

She scrambled to salvage the situation. “No no. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Oh, okay.” Nesta pressed her lips to his softly. “Oh,” he murmured in surprise when she pulled away.

When he tried to kiss her again, Nesta pressed her finger into his lips with a small smile. “Kiss me again when you’re sober,” she whispered. His grin was blinding.


	16. Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoo boy this is a long one clocking in at 4k words… but it’s worth it :)

Even before everything happened, Azriel had been planning to ask Elain to marry him. He loved her.

Now, he didn’t care what her mother thought. They would not mourn her death, even if all of Velaris would.

Azriel bathed and changed into his best clothes, spending the extra time to scrub the paint from his boots. He wanted to look his best. Today he would ask Madonna Archeron for her daughter’s hand in marriage.

E _lain laughed, her smile brighter than the sun as she talked with the flower merchant in the marketplace. She was stunning. Taking a gold piece out of the purse at her side, Elain pressed it into the old man’s hand and folded his fingers around the coin. She shook her head when he tried to refuse, telling him to keep it. It was far more than the flowers she bought were worth, but she didn’t care._

_Linking her arm with Azriel’s when she found him staring, she stood on her toes to kiss his cheek. They wandered through the throngs of people in the crowded marketplace, content to enjoy each other’s presence and the beautiful day._

_Azriel led Elain to his favorite spot in the city. It required sneaking her into the bell tower and past the men working in the building below, but it was well worth it. The view of the city of starlight from the top of the bell tower was breathtaking._

_“You’re staring,” Elain giggled, her cheeks filling with a rosy flush._

_Azriel didn’t care. “You’re beautiful,” he breathed._

_She turned from where she had been staring at the city beneath to kiss him. It was soft and sweet and gentle, just like the woman before him. Azriel settled his hands onto the curves of her waist that fit perfectly into his grip, deepening their kiss. Elain threw her arms around his neck, standing on her toes to pull him lower and tangle her fingers into his unruly curls._

_“Marry me,” he whispered, kissing her forehead as they caught their breath. “Marry me, Elain Archeron. I love you.”_

_Nodding vigorously, Elain kissed him again, murmuring her answer of “Yes, a thousand times yes” into his lips._

Knocking at the door to her mother’s study, he tried not to be nervous. Asking the madonna was just a formality at this point, but he knew Elain wanted a grand wedding like her older sister had. Even if he would just be fine with it being them, their family and friends, and a priestess. A muffled _come in_ came from inside.

“Azriel, what a surprise,” Madonna Archeron greeted him. He bowed, taking a seat in the chair on the opposite side of the desk. “I heard you were back in Velaris. What can I do for you?”

Shoving down his nerves, Azriel cleared his throat. “I wish to ask for Elain’s hand in marriage, Madonna. Iー”

“No.” The woman’s voice was ice cold, her eyes like stone. “I’m not letting her sully herself and this family’s reputation by marrying a man of such low breeding. Praise the Mother, it was bad enough you got your child in her but thankfully that crisis was averted.”

Azriel went numb. It was one thing hearing it from Elain, but quite another to hear it from her mother, who made it sound like she did it for her daughter’s benefit.

“Madonna Archeron,” he ground out from gritted teeth, “you do know of Lord Romano in the north, yes?” She nodded. “Lord Romano is my father. My ‘low breeding’ as you call it will not sully Elain’s reputation. I may not have a fortune like the other lordlings you know or live in a massive estate, but I have steady, high-paying work and can provide for us both. I love her.”

His cheek stung with the force of her slap. Her chest heaved, hairs escaping from her pristine, matronly bun. “Never, ever say that again,” she snarled.

That was it. Azriel shoved back his chair and stood, using his height to his advantage. Her face paled just the slightest bit when she saw the sheer, burning rage in his features. He seethed, “Let me make something clear for you, Madonna.” Leaning in close and bracing his hands on the edge of her desk, he watched fear overtake her. “Elain is not yours to control. She is her own woman. Your daughters are not puppets for you to yank their strings, as much as you wish they were. I asked for your blessing as a formality, not permission. Elain has already agreed to marry me. I love her and she loves me.

“If it was up to me, you would be dead by now for what you have done. Remember that.” Azriel turned on his heel and left, shutting the door quietly behind him. He shook with an anger he needed to let loose before it consumed him wholly.

Ducking into the nearest shadowed hallway, Azriel leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. In, and out. In, and out. He forced himself to breathe, to steady his thundering heart. It worked to some extent, his anger slowly ebbing away like the tide of the Sidra. Slowly. He punched the stone wall with a muffled roar, uncaring if he broke the bones in his hand. Blood dripped from his raw knuckles, the sound of drops hitting the ground beneath him too-loud. The pain reminded him of who he was.

An artist, not a killer.

* * *

Cassian’s head throbbed when he opened his eyes, a pained groan escaping him before he could stop it. Turning his head, he saw Nesta asleep facing him, her features soft in slumber. As if she felt his eyes on her, she awoke with a yawn and a soft smile.

_Kiss me when you’re sober._

The rest of what he said last night came rushing back to him and Cassian wanted to die on the spot. Mother help him, he was so, so stupid. He shouldn’t have said that. It was too soon. She had only just started opening up to him after over a year of marriage.

_Kiss me when you’re sober._

But those five words begged to differ.

Fingertips rested on his cheek and Cassian was drawn back to the moment. Nesta toyed with an errant strand of his hair, watching him with those piercing blue eyes flecked with little bits of grey.

A servant stepped into the room, breaking their little bubble of serenity. “Signora and Signor, Lord Soldato requests your presence at his estate. Would you like me to have Maria send up breakfast?” she asked.

“No, thank you,” Nesta answered. “We’ll be down shortly.”

The servant bowed and left, leaving them alone again. Although the moment had been ruined, the opportunity lost. His wife threw back the blankets to shrug on a robe and head to breakfast. Cassian followed her numbly, still mulling over the fact that his father was back in the city. That meant nothing good. For anyone.

“Nesta,” Cassian reached for her hand, capturing it and stopping their progress in the middle of the hallway. “About last night …” he trailed off, unsure of how to continue.

“It’s fine,” Nesta replied sharply, ending the conversation then and there. “We’ve got more important things to worry about right now.”

Cassian was shocked by her sudden change in attitude. He thought they were finally getting somewhere. “No. We’re not doing that. Nesta, tell me. Did you mean what you said last night?”

Nesta whipped around, her eyes chips of flint. “Did _you?_ ” she snapped. “Or was that just the wine talking for you?”

“I meant every word I said.”

“Then so did I.”

His wife turned to stalk down the hallway toward the dining room, leaving Cassian staring after her, shellshocked. The only option left to him was to follow her, so that’s what he did.

Their horses trotted side by side through the streets of Velaris. They could have walked, but today they needed to show his father a unified front. Even if it was a fragile one beneath the surface. Cassian held Bryaxis’s reins loosely, watching Nesta ride at his side. Her chin was high and her spine straight. If he looked close enough he could see a muscle feathering in her jaw. The only sign of how stressed out she was.

He didn’t bother with the fake assurances that Lord Soldato couldn’t hurt her. The man very well could and would most likely try. That was the reason for Cassian feeling like he was dressed for battle. Sheathed across his back was his Illyrian windsword, his daggers on his waist. Nesta’s own Illyrian daggers were sheathed on her thighs underneath the skirts of her dress.

Two frightened stableboys rushed to take their horses once they arrived. Cassian helped Nesta down off of Tempest not because she needed it but because he wanted to. She thanked him with a slight nod of her head, fixing the skirts of her dress at the sound of boots clicking across the cobblestones.

Devlon appeared where his father should’ve been, a small miracle. He gestured for them to follow, leading them to the simply decorated receiving room. Cassian dreaded this room. This was the space where he watched his mother be dragged away all those years ago, screaming after her and fighting Devlon’s grip while his father seethed, blood dripping down his face.

Nesta’s grip on his arm was iron beside him, her face neutral. They stepped into the room together. Devlon took his spot to his father’s right, the spot to his left filled by a woman with pale skin that rarely saw the sun and crimson hair dressed in a blood-red dress that matched her hair. Her sharp grin unsettled him, like a fox toying with its food on the brink of death and they both knew it.

“My son,” Lord Soldato announced with a close-lipped smile. “And my daughter-in-law. What a beautiful couple you make. Still no children, I assume?” His tone dripped with icy politeness, even though the question was posed as a statement he already knew the answer to.

Cassian bristled. “Father,” he ground out. “How nice of you to visit Velaris.”

“A dissapointment,” the redhead drawled, sipping from a glass of wine he hadn’t noticed in her hand. “By now, she should already have one and be pregnant with the second.”

“ _She_ is standing right here and can hear every word you say,” Nesta said, her voice dripping with venom coated in honey. This was the Viper making her appearance.

Lord Soldato ignored her, focusing his dark gaze on Cassian. “Well, boy, have you done as I told you? Clearly you failed on at least one front.”

“We did not come here to discuss my marriage,” Cassian countered, refusing to answer his father. Even if he would never forget the man’s threats toward Nesta. His wife. The woman he loved. “What do you want?”

His father laughed. “You would think so little of me? Am I not allowed to visit my son and his wife, even if he does step foot into my humble abode dressed like he’s about to head into battle?”

Nesta said nothing at Cassian’s side, but he could feel her trembling with anger. An anger that burned through her like wildfire, burning so hot the flames were silver. Those silver flames danced in her eyes, devouring the stormy blue he so loved. Venom sat heavy on her tongue, he knew it did. And yet she kept silent.

She wasn’t silent out of respect or the fear of her tongue bucking free from her iron grip on it. She was terrified.

Cassian vowed to himself she would never be terrified of a man again. Not after Tomas, not after what he did to her. And here was his father, dredging up memories and nightmares for both of them.

“Just tell us what you want,” Cassian huffed in exasperation. “You didn’t return to Velaris just because you could. Tell us, and then we will be leaving.”

The redhead answered before his father got the chance. “We’re in town for the city’s annual games. Then we’ll be on our way, out of your hair,” she piped up with a smile.

“Amarantha,” the lord hissed.

Nesta curtseyed at Cassian’s side, murmuring a “my lord” before turning on her heel to head for the stables. Cassian followed her after glaring at his father, not bothering to address him with respect to his title. The ride back home was silent. He tried to get a reaction out of his wife with the bawdiest jokes he knew, but he got nothing. She vanished the second they dismounted, giving him no chance to trail her. Emerie refused to tell him where she went, even when he begged after searching the entire compound top to bottom.

* * *

Lord Soldato sank heavily into the chair behind his desk after his son and daughter-in-law departed. Amarantha was nudged from the room by a stoic Devlon and then they shut the door. And he was alone at last.

The reason the King’s assassin gave for their arrival in Velaris wasn’t a complete and total lie. The best lies were always threaded with truth. But they were also here to see how his son and the Viper were. There was no mistaking the fear in her eyes at the sight of him. It was a thrill in his blood, to see her afraid of him. She should be, after what she did to him the last time he was here. The day the Viper of Velaris learned she would be marrying his bastard son.

The scar on his leg ached as if to spite him.

Nesta Archeron would die. But first she would watch everything she loved be torn down around her. She would watch as those she loved died before her eyes. The lord would leave the killing of his son to the King himself. He would not spill the lifeblood of his own son, no matter how much the bastard deserved it.

* * *

The silence wore on her nerves more than usual. Elain picked up a book, tried to read, and set it down. Nothing could calm her down. Not even the flowers she cut two days ago from the meadows outside the city walls. They looked stunning in the simple vase on the table, filling their home with a sweet floral scent that wasn’t overpowering.

And yet, today they bothered her.

Azriel went to tell her mother he wanted to marry her.

Elain rested her hand on her stomach. Her secret. Soon to be _their_ secret. He had only returned to Velaris just over two months ago, but Elain had forgone the contraceptive tea without telling him. The monthly bleeding that was normally like clockwork was late. Two weeks late. So she hoped. Deep down, she knew.

And this time, she would fight tooth and nail to keep her baby safe.

The door opened and Elain jumped to her feet, fixing her skirts. Azriel shut it softly, giving her a sad smile. They reached for each other at the same time, holding on tight. Elain didn’t care what her mother said, what threats she threw at the gentle painter. She loved him more than she ever thought one could love another. The madonna’s answer was expected, they both knew what it would be even before Azriel asked. Yet they still did so anyway, out of politeness and formality.

A hope that she would change her mind. That hope was dashed on the rocks until it was bloody and unrecognizable.

Azriel buried his nose into the crook of her neck, breathing in deeply. The smell of her comforted him. Eased the anger simmering in his blood, washed it all away in a few deep breaths. Elain slipped her palms underneath the hem of his doublet to lay flat on the warm skin of his lower back. Just as her scent comforted him, the feeling of his bare skin underneath her touch comforted her.

They kept their fingers intertwined, walking slowly up the stairs. Both undressed until they were nude. Then they lay on the bed under the thick blankets to keep out the autumn chill, porcelain against warm terracotta. Elain mindlessly traced the scars on his hands, uncaring of how rough and calloused they were in her gentle grip. Azriel cupped her cheeks in his palms, kissing her. Sweetly, softly, telling her he loved her over and over and over again with the silent language of his lips on hers.

This was heaven and hell all tangled into one, the blissful exhilaration of his touch and the painful anticipation of his lips and hands and tongue on her skin.

“I love you,” she murmured with her fingers tangled in his soft dark curls as he moved inside of her. A tear rolled down his cheek, dripping onto her collarbone with searing heat. He didn’t need to say it back, she knew by the way he held her tight afterward, refusing to let go of her. The silence was easy between the two of them, it always had been.

He slept, his face that of an angel. Dark curls matching long lashes that brushed his cheeks, a sharp jawline and even sharper cheekbones, full lips parted and tinged a luscious pink. Whorls of dark ink danced across his bare chest and forearms. Elain didn’t dare let go of him, for she feared their moment of blissful serenity would vanish.

“Azriel,” she whispered with a soft smile, “my Azriel. The love of my life, the father of my child. The greatest painter ever to made the city of starlight his home. Soon to be my husband, my lover forevermore. There is no one I would rather spend my days and nights and everything in between with. I love you, more than you could ever know.”

Azriel Romano was an angel, sent to her in a flurry of messy dark curls and paint-stained tunics with paint smeared carelessly across his skin.

* * *

Nesta dismounted, handing the reins of Tempest over to one of the stableboys. Giving Cassian no chance to follow because she knew he was the only one Bryaxis would allow near enough to remove the saddle, she picked up her skirts and fled.

The guards at the alley gate let her pass without comment, staring straight ahead. So she lifted her skirts high enough to be indecent should anyone stop her and ran. No one paid any attention to the girl with a hood over her head rushing through the crowded riverside textile market. The people of Velaris knew when to ask questions, and this wasn’t one of them.

Her eyes burned with the sting of unshed tears, the cobblestones beneath her slippered feet blurring. As much as she loved her husband, she couldn’t breathe. The walls closed in around her, her breath catching in her chest. Terror ate her alive in that room, the scar trailing down his face reminding her too much of another man who gave her a scar of her own.

So Nesta ran to the one place he didn’t know about. The best kept secret in all of Velaris. Those that knew pretended they didn’t; those that didn’t pretended they did. A riddle where the only right answer was the one they never cared to think of.

A simple stairwell carved into the riverbank, a dark tunnel lit by the single solitary flame of a flickering candle, a path that led to an abandoned temple for a goddess the rest of the city forgot about. Her name was lost to the shifting sands of time. Everburning incense clouded the air inside the temple, candles dripping hardening wax tucked in nooks all over. Drops of water echoed as they hit the stone polished from centuries of female steps, falling from stalactites high above her head.

Nesta was alone.

She sank to her knees before the marble statue untouched and unmarred by the cruelties of age in a cavern, sobs tearing from her chest. The whispers that had long plagued her after Tomas raped her echoed around her, digging their claws into the obsidian walls protecting her and dragging to leave bone-white wounds that bled crimson.

_Unworthy._

_You don’t belong._

_Unworthy._

_You don’t belong here, in this sacred space. Leave._

_Unworthy._

_Unworthy._

“I am worthy!” Nesta roared.

Life slowly filtered back in. The feeling of her aching fingers wrapped around the sharp stones of the ground. The dripping of water. The gentle gust of warm wind that caressed her cheek, like that of a mother she never knew.

And so Nesta prayed until her voice ran hoarse and her tears dried on her cheeks. Prayed until the strength to face the men who wished to harm her flowed through her veins.

She stood on wobbly legs and closed her eyes, drinking in the silence and breathing deeply until the tension ebbed from her limbs. The unblinking, unseeing eyes of the statue stared straight ahead. But they stared into her soul, seeing all of the scars and horrible things lingering within and not balking.

“I am worthy,” Nesta repeated in a hoarse whisper. The magic of the temple agreed, her fingers brushing through the thick fur of the massive grey wolf who guarded the temple. The she-wolf bumped her head into Nesta’s hip, begging for an ear-scratching. So she obliged.

“I am worthy,” she told the temple guardian, who only blinked her honey-brown eyes in response.

_Yes, you are._

Nesta walked silently back through the tunnel, the she-wolf padding beside her. At the entrance, they parted. Nesta climbed the steps slippery with the everpresent damp of the Sidra, heading back home through the winding city streets. Overhead, the stars twinkled into being, keeping her company while she walked home. Home, to the man she loved. To the man that asked nothing more of her than what she gave.

Cassian Archeron, the warrior with a heart of gold. A heart Nesta held in her hand, a dagger in the other. The choice was hers, whether or not she carved out her own and handed it to him for safekeeping or shattered his into a thousand pieces.

Lifting her skirts and running, Nesta flew up the stairs and crashed through the door to her room. There he sat on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at his hands. Then his face lit up with a soft smile that wept of shyness, keeping his hands in his lap even as he longed to reach for her. Nesta lifted him to his feet by the collar of his loose maroon tunic, staring deep into the hazel depths and finding the answer she had been looking for all along.

“Kiss me when you’re sober,” she murmured, reminding him.

Cassian’s eyes widened, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips. Ever so slowly, he cupped her face in his rough hands with callouses that scraped against her skin. She was given every chance to pull away, if she wanted to. He wouldn’t pressure her for what she wouldn’t give. The pad of his thumb brushed soothing circles along her cheekbone. Nesta blinked, giving him the conformation he waited for. Then his lips were on hers, soft and supple and heartbreakingly gentle.

His smile was contagious when he pulled back to watch her. Instead of kissing her again like she expected, Cassian wrapped her tight in his embrace. His lips brushed her forehead, soft and fleeting. Nesta held him close, her cheek pressed against his chest, listening to his heart thunder under his skin. A heart that beat in time with her own.

Nesta stood on her toes to kiss him again, slipping her fingers into his hair and tangling them in the fine hairs at the nape of his neck. Cassian gripped her waist, kissing her until she was dizzy. She would never tire of this, even if they were cursed with immortality at each other’s side.


	17. Sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TIME JUMP time

Alessandra Archeron knew this day was coming. When her two eldest daughters approached her as a united front, Elain cradling the massive swell of her heavily-pregnant stomach and Nesta with a fire in her eyes, she sent Lucien out of the study with a whispered command for him to tell her handmaidens to start packing her trunks.

“For the crimes you have committed against your daughters, your own flesh and blood, we hereby banish you from Velaris, never to return,” Nesta said, her voice cold and unwavering. “You have two days to pack your things and leave. As a courtesy, you will be paid a monthly allowance.”

That was it. No teary goodbye from either of her daughters in the city of starlight, no warm farewells. She didn’t regret any of her actions. She had her own secrets, her own reasons for doing what she did.

The city gates clanged shut behind her and her small entourage. She didn’t look back. Not once.

She was given a cliffside cottage to the west, overlooking the channel with ships occasionally dotting the azure seas below. There, she settled into her new home. Strolling along the cliff, Alessandra waited for his arrival. The wind stalled, birds falling silent. Waves crashed against the rocks far below.

“My darling Alessandra,” the King said, kissing her cheeks in greeting. “How long it has been and yet you haven’t aged a day.”

“Roberto,” Alessandra smiled, holding his hands in hers. “Or should I address you as Your Majesty?” His laugh was warm as they linked arms, continuing along the path worn in by her feet atop the seaside cliff.

Long before she became Madonna Archeron and he the King of Hybern, they were two young fools in love, thinking it would last forever. Her uncle took her in after her parents died in a fire that took everything they owned, a wealthy man who strived for power and was willing to sell his niece to the highest bidder. Roberto was just an orphan who the garrison commander took in, growing up a soldier who was the best at what he did: killing. They met at a dinner for the leaders of the city and the rest was history.

* * *

Velaris flourished in eight years of peace. Merchant ships sailed up the Sidra from the sea, full of goods from cities across Prythian.

Lucien loved the Archeron family but some days he wished they weren’t so damn good at what they did. The bank was busier than ever and he was in charge of most of the day-to-day finances and keeping the books accurate.

And with four children underfoot, the Archeron home was a flurry of constant activity. Elain and Azriel’s twin boys were constantly running through the halls with wooden swords and nearly bowling over the poor terrified servants. Their daughter was quiet, trailing Lucien around silently and sitting in his lap while he filled in the books every evening. Elain liked to joke that Isabella was more his daughter than hers, while Andrea and Marco took after their father in appearance. But somehow they inherited their uncles’ fondness for mischief and trouble. Having Rosa and Giuliano around didn’t help Lucien’s head either, when they were in the city with Tamlin and Feyre.

Lucien swore to the Mother that Celeste Archeron was a changeling. In the presence of her mother, her aunt, and her cousin, she was the sweetest and most polite little girl he had ever met. But when she played games with her twin cousins and her father, she was a feral creature. When Amren visited, the two got along scarily well. Although it wasn’t surprising, seeing as Nesta and Cassian were her parents. They were fiercely protective of their little girl, since Nesta couldn’t manage to have another. Not for lack of trying, though.

Motherhood softened the sharp edges of Nesta Archeron, but she was still the Viper of Velaris. And their little girl was a menace with a dagger. Heaven forbid they give her a sword. Lucien sparred with Azriel, Nesta, and Cassian in the ring to keep himself fit while the children watched and giggled, playing games.

“Lucien,” Isabella called out from the hall, shoving open the door with her foot with a shy smile. In her hands she held a plate with miniature desserts. “Maria helped me make these. Try it.” They were all different designs and a little bit haphazard but then again the girl was six whereas Maria had years of baking experience.

He took one from the plate, pushing aside the accounting books while popping it into his mouth. The flaky pastry burst in his mouth, releasing a sweet apple filling flavored with traditional autumn spices from his home city. This one had a little too much cinnamon, but Lucien smiled anyway. At his grin, Isabella beamed.

“It’s delicious,” he told her, taking two more from the plate. “Have you given some to your parents yet?” She shook her head. “You should. You know, your father has an incurable sweet tooth. Your uncle, too.”

Her little eyebrows furrowed as she frowned in confusion and cocked her head to the side. Big brown eyes blinked at him. “What’s incurable mean?” she asked.

Lucien ruffled her chestnut waves. “They can’t resist sweets,” he whispered, like it was a secret he guarded with his life. Isabella giggled, bouncing out of the room to search for her parents.

* * *

With her nose in a book, Rosa ignored her mother. Feyre eventually gave up on trying to start a conversation with her daughter, resorting to staring out the window. Tamlin and Giuliano rode side by side ahead of the carriage, their buoyant laughter trailing back behind them. Rhys was already on his way back to Velaris, separating from them at a little roadside inn in the countryside.

They vacationed at a small villa in Adriata for a month, taking a well-deserved break from their lives and the responsibility that came along with it.

Feyre loved to take out her small set of paints in a traveling trunk and paint the sea and the city itself. Occasionally, if Giuliano would sit still long enough she would paint him. But that was rare. The boy had more energy than he knew what to do with. She had lost count of the broken glass and vases long ago.

Rosehall appeared over the horizon and Feyre breathed out a sigh of relief. It would be nice to be home.

They were home for less than a week before it happened. Feyre was sketching on the grass when she saw the cloud of dust and heard the sound of many horses and the clinking of armor. She ran inside to Tamlin’s study, breathless.

“Men, on horseback,” she breathed. “Armed. I think.”

Tamlin shoved back his chair, leaving his work to rush to the front of the manor. “Did you see a banner?” he asked, his words clipped. Feyre shook her head. They stood behind one of the massive glass windows on the second floor, watching the men ride closer. Sunlight glinted off the silver of their armor, blindingly so. At the front of the riders was a man Feyre hadn’t seen since her sister’s wedding all those years ago.

Lord Soldato.

His lips moved as he shouted orders and the soldiers dismounted. Some stayed on their horses, riding away.

“Get Rosa and Giuliano. Now,” Tamlin ordered. Then he turned to Feyre, gripping her arms tightly before she could rush off. “You need to run. I’ve heard rumours that Lord Soldato joined with Hybern. It seems they were true. Now, Feyre.” He gave her a push toward the door.

Feyre lingered for just a second, words sitting heavy on her tongue. “I’m sorry, Tamlin. I love you. Just not in the way I should have.” Her voice was small, but he turned anyway, striding over to hug her.

“We were never meant to be, Feyre,” he murmured, kissing the top of her head. “Thank you for everything. For my son. You taught me how to properly love, how to forgive. I love you, too.”

Tears filled her eyes and she hurriedly swiped them away with her fingers. Then she lifted her skirts and rushed to find her children. Thankfully, both of them were in the library with their tutor.

“Rosa, Giuliano, we need to go, now.” They stared at her, fear and confusion overflowing from their features. “Come on, to the stables.”

There, Tamlin held the reins to two horses. He hugged Giuliano, crouching to whisper something in his ear. Feyre swung herself into the saddle, Rosa behind her with her arms around her waist. Father and son said their goodbyes, the latter lifted into the saddle of Tamlin’s prized horse. Deep down, Feyre knew if he was giving their son his horse, Tamlin didn’t expect to live to see the next dawn.

Soldiers shouted, running for them with swords drawn once they left the stables. Tamlin drew his own sword and held a dagger in his other hand, settling into a fighting stance. The soldiers drew closer; the horses pranced nervously in place.

“Go!” Tamlin roared. “Go to Rhys, he’ll protect you.”

Then the soldiers descended on him, blades flashing in the sun. There was no time for a reply. Feyre kicked her horse into a gallop and headed for the road that would take them to the small town nearby. She looked back one last time before the bend in the road hid him completely from view and sobbed. Tamlin sank to his knees, staring in disbelief at the arrow protruding from his chest. His emerald gaze met hers as one of the soldier’s swords plunged into his stomach. Then they were around the bend and she couldn’t see anything anymore.

“Mama, what happened?” Giuliano asked, their horses slowing to a trot. He hadn’t seen. Bless the Mother for small miracles. “What happened to Papa? Why isn’t he coming with us?”

Feyre swallowed her sorrow, burying it for a later date. Her husband was dead, murdered by a soldier of Hybern or Lord Soldato. They hadn’t loved each other in the way a husband and wife should, but rather the love of years of close friendship. Tamlin didn’t deserve the death he was given; he was a good man.

“He’s protecting Rosehall,” Feyre choked out. And he did, until his last breath.

* * *

Rhys rode around the countryside for a few days after their vacation to Adriata, savoring the peace and quiet and serenity of the countryside. After five days of staying in roadside inns with mediocre food at best and even worse beds, he decided to pay a visit to Rosehall. There was always a room reserved for him and a seat at their table.

Astride Nightmare, Rhys headed for the manor. Something was off. Nightmare refused to go any further, no matter how much Rhys coaxed her. So he dismounted, tying her reins around the trunk of a skinny tree alongside the road. Then he walked.

It was quiet, too quiet.

Then he saw the body. Bodies. And a trail of blood across the packed dirt. Rhys broke into a run, shouting for Feyre. He skidded to a stop so hard he fell, his breath a shudder in his chest. Tamlin was dead. An arrow pierced his chest inches above his heart, dried blood crusting on his tunic where a sword had been plunged through his stomach. The metallic stench of blood and the cloying sweetness of death turned his own stomach. It seemed Tamlin took at least half a dozen soldiers along with him to the land of milk and honey. Flies droned around the lord’s corpse, crows wheeling overhead. Emerald eyes stared unseeing up at the cloudless blue sky.

Rhysand vomited until his stomach was empty. Then he murmured the funeral rites, closing Tamlin’s eyes and standing on unsteady legs to search for Feyre and Rosa and Giuliano. In three rounds of the house and the grounds, he found nothing. No bodies, thank the Mother. But also no other living souls besides himself.

Hope blossomed inside his heart. They must have escaped.

He mounted Nightmare and rode like the wind for the inn where Feyre and Tamlin had departed him. Two horses drank from the water trough, the regal palomino barely acknowledging his arrival. And yet, he knew that horse. That was Tamlin’s. So Feyre must be here. Alive.

Stepping into the gloom, he roved the tables. Then Rosa barreled into him, nearly knocking him over. She dragged him back to the table where Feyre and Giuliano sat. Feyre threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and sobbing. Rhys rubbed her back soothingly. He listened as she told him in a hushed voice what happened, not wanting to upset her further with what he saw earlier. Neither child knew Tamlin was dead, even if they suspected.

The next morning, they rode for Velaris.


	18. Seventeen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have nothing to say … but things are staring to fall into place

Galloping across the countryside, Nesta felt free. Untethered. Completely and utterly _free_. She nudged Tempest to go faster, her grin so wide her cheeks hurt. The grey Arabian beneath her was exactly her namesake: a tempest. The world became a blur of green and blue streaked with white.

Nesta threw her arms wide, the wind tearing at her hair and her loose blouse. There was nothing in the world that would make her happiness fade.

Tempest slowed to a trot a short while away from the large tree casting shade down on the two loves of her life. Her chest heaved, body streaked with sweat. A job well done, Nesta patted her beloved steed’s side and murmured what a good girl she was. Dismounting, she grabbed an apple from their basket and gave it to Tempest. A hot breath warmed Nesta’s hand as the horse huffed an exhale, taking the apple and eating it.

“Hello, sweetheart,” Cassian whispered as he wrapped his arms around Nesta’s waist from behind, kissing her neck softly. “Cele’s napping and holding your grizzled old beast hostage. Enjoy your ride?”

Cassian grunted softly as Nesta elbowed him. “Don’t call him a grizzled old beast,” she reprimanded her husband. “Lupo is neither grizzled nor old. He’s a gorgeous hunting hound who loves our daughter and would protect her with his life. Insult my darling again and you can sleep on the floor.” Turning in his embrace, Nesta tangled her fingers into her husband’s unruly hair and kissed him. His grip on her waist tightened, pulling her flush against his body. A brazen hand slid down to squeeze her ass. Nesta didn’t mind, fisting her hand in his hair and tugging gently. His groan into her mouth was one that sent warmth rushing to her core.

“Not here,” Nesta breathed, pulling away even when everything in her screamed not to. “Not in broad daylight.”

His hazel eyes sparkled with mischief, his lips twitching into a crooked smile. One she so loved.

As they rode back to Velaris with the sun bleeding red on the horizon, Nesta held Celeste tight. The little girl was sleepy, her head tipping forward only to snap back up and repeat the cycle all over again. Maria took her once they arrived, promising to tuck her in while her parents ate. Nesta shot the woman a grateful smile, linking her arm with Cassian’s.

Her younger sister was in the process of corralling her twin boys to bed when Nesta entered the dining room. Elain looked flustered, horribly so. They ran straight for their uncle when they saw him, leaping into his arms so fast Nesta jumped out of the way with a laugh. With a few whispered words and a nod from the boys, they were set down and quietly left.

“What kind of sorcery do you cast on my sons, Cassian?” Elain demanded, a glint of humour in her eyes. She was thankful for his interference, Nesta knew. Yet again, her younger sister was pregnant. She hadn’t yet begun to show but the brood of Archeron children in the house was about to increase. Dealing with three children was hard enough even without the added pressure of a fourth.

His laugh was booming. “I just told them that if they go to bed, I’ll let them hold my windsword tomorrow. Boys and their swords,” he chuckled, kissing Nesta’s cheek, then Elain’s. “I don’t envy you, about to add another to the ensuing chaos.”

“Cassian!” Nesta hissed.

“What? It’s true,” he cried.

Elain’s hand settled over her stomach, her smile sly. “He’s not wrong. I don’t mind, though. Azriel likes when I’m pregnant, more to grab.”

Nesta and Cassian both gagged, not needing to know more than they already did about Elain’s sex life with her husband. They already knew plenty, hearing muffled moans coming from Azriel’s studio during the day.

Azriel stepped into the room a moment later, his tunic askew and splattered with paint. “What about me?” he asked, biting into an apple.

“I was just saying how you like when I’m pregnant, there’s more to hold on to,” Elain smiled demurely. Her husband choked, his cheeks flaring crimson. But he didn’t deny it.

“Get out.” Cassian pointed at the door. “Get out, you disgust me.”

Azriel and Elain left without a fuss, sharing a quiet smile. When they turned the corner, Cassian sank into a chair with a loud, exasperated sigh. He complained about his brother and sister-in-law in between bites of food, scowling.

After dinner, Nesta curled up on the chaise lounge with a book and her feet stretched across Cassian’s lap. He rubbed her ankles mindlessly, staring blankly at the fire crackling in the hearth. The pads of his fingers were rough yet soft from years of wielding weapons. Something was on his mind. Nesta could sense it. It wasn’t Elain and Azriel’s comments from earlier.

Sitting up, she pulled her feet from his lap and instead sat next to him, taking his hand in hers. Cassian only kissed the top of her head softly, resting his arm around her. They didn’t need words when they knew each other so well.

 _What’s wrong?_ she asked silently, laying her head on his shoulder and squeezing his hand.

He was quiet for a long time before she felt the sharp rise and fall of his chest. _My father._

Nesta stilled, her eyes filling with tears. Lord Soldato was a threat to everything, everyone, she loved. Last time he was in the city of starlight, he lured Celeste away with a lost puppy just to show them what he could do should either of them step out of line. What line, they didn’t know. Shortly after that, Nesta trained Lupo to act as her daughter’s guard dog.

Suddenly she was in her husband’s lap, his thumbs warm on her cheeks as he wiped away her tears. In the depths of his eyes she could see the warring emotions.

“I won’t let him hurt her,” he promised, voice rough. “Or you. I love you.”

There was no need for her to say it back, he knew a thousand times over. Her love language wasn’t in the words she spoke but rather the wordless actions. Underneath the viper, the scales, the armour was a woman who loved a man that treated her like a goddess. She was the altar he worshipped at, professing his love for her into her skin and reminding her that she deserved every drop of the endless river flowing from his heart.

She tucked her head into the crook between his neck and shoulder, letting her lashes flutter closed so she could focus on the steady rhythm of his beating heart. In all the years since she first laid her head on his chest and listened to his heart, it had never changed. Never failed to soothe the torrent of emotions inside her.

So Nesta listened.

* * *

Azriel enjoyed strolling along the bank of the Sidra, whistling a merry tune. He nodded to those he passed, many smiling or greeting him in return. The humid summer air clung to him like a second skin, rivulets of sweat trailing down his back under his light linen tunic. Named the city of starlight, Velaris took the sun’s rays like a greedy child.

Even after all these years and three children, Elain and Azriel kept their small house near the river. It was theirs and theirs alone, his main studio reserved for painting his effervescent wife and love of his life. The bed tucked into the corner was always unmade because of how often they got distracted.

Before Elain found out she was pregnant with Isabella, he and Lucien and Elain had shared that bed. On more than one occasion.

“Elain?” he called out, shutting the door quietly behind him. No reply. Toeing off his boots, he padded up the stairs. His wife was asleep on the bed, her lips parted and eyelashes brushing her cheeks. She stirred when he crawled in with her, making a noise that sounded like a whine as she curled into his side.

Hours later he awoke. Blearily patting the bed, he found it warm. But she wasn’t there.

Sitting up, he rubbed the remains of sleep from his eyes. Elain was clothed in a simple day dress, the stomach loose enough to hide the faint swell of her stomach. She smiled, walking over to kiss him.

“Enjoy your nap?” she giggled.

Azriel snaked an arm around her waist and yanked her into his lap. Her unexpected tumble had her squealing.

“Very much, wife,” he whispered in her ear, making sure it was low and sensual. “But I would enjoy you more.” The grip she had on his biceps tightened, her breath catching.

They were both powerless to ignore the desire that coursed through them, falling victim to it many, many times.

Azriel rested his hand on Elain’s lower back as they walked through Velaris, heading back for the Archeron complex. The sound of hooves on cobblestones had them stepping to the side to allow the riders to pass. As they passed, Azriel shook his head. Feyre wasn’t due for a visit anytime soon.

“Feyre?” he shouted. “Rhys?”

They turned, Feyre dismounting to throw herself into her sister’s arms. Azriel stepped to Rhys, his brows creased in a confused frown.

“Why are you here?” he asked his brother.

Rhys chewed the inside of his cheek. “I think it’s better if we have Nesta and Cassian to hear this.”

Oily fear coiled in Azriel’s stomach. Something terrible had happened, he knew it deep in his bones. And it would change their lives.

* * *

Hearing the sound of footsteps in the halls, Cassian poked his head from the library. Curious, he followed the muffled voices to the second-floor study. Inside the room were two people he wasn’t expecting: Feyre and Rhys.

Nesta gestured for him to come in and shut the door behind him. He stood behind his wife as she made herself comfortable in the plush chair.

“Now that we’re all here, explain yourselves,” Nesta ordered. In this moment, she was not their sister. She was the head of the Archeron household, demanding an explanation.

Cassian watched as Feyre swallowed thickly, eyes cast down toward the rug. The rug his wife had spilled his father’s blood on. This room carried more memories than he thought one could bear without collapsing.

“Tamlin’s dead.” It was a barely-audible whisper. Cassian and Azriel’s gazes whipped toward Rhys, asking if this was his doing. Rhys shook his head. “Tamlin’s dead,” Feyre repeated. When she lifted her gaze, her eyes were chips of steel. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “Tamlin’s dead. And your father killed him.”

Her finger pointed straight to Cassian.

The room fell silent. There was more sound in an abandoned crypt than in this room.

Cassian laughed. They all stared at him like he was insane. Maybe he was. Maybe not. For years, he had thought of all the ways his father would make his move. He always thought it would be more direct, aiming straight for the two people he despised most in the world. His own son and Nesta Archeron. Or their daughter.

“What the fuck, Cassian?” Rhys snarled. “Stop fucking laughing.” Feyre stared at him with fear in her eyes.

Shaking his head, Cassian chuckled darkly. “This is just the beginning. You two are lucky to be alive.” Squeezing Nesta’s shoulder, he left the room, leaving its oppressiveness behind.

She found him lying on his back, staring at his mother’s star. Wrapping her arms around her knees, Nesta kept quiet for a while.

“Say it, sweetheart. Say I’m crazy. That’s what they all think,” he spat. His words were venomous, the poison not meant for the woman he loved. But if he kept it bottled up inside, he would be the one poisoned.

Nesta’s voice was soft. “You scared them, Cassian.” Her skirts rustled in the darkness as she lay down beside him, stretching out his arm to rest her head on his chest and tracing mindless patterns on the fabric of his loose tunic. “And for the record, I don’t think you’re crazy. I love you. That won’t change. They just weren’t expecting that sort of reaction from you. That’s all.”

Cassian shivered, overtaken by a sudden chill. He closed his eyes, wishing his life was simpler. Wishing he and Nesta didn’t have titles and last names and the responsibility attached to them. He knew this day would come.

But it still didn’t feel _real_. It felt like a nightmare he couldn’t wake up from.

“Nesta, this isn’t a bad dream, is it?”

“No, Cassian, it’s not.”


	19. Eighteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yikes

Palms flat against the smooth grain of the wood, Nesta surveyed the map beneath her fingers. Hybern lay south of them, on an island separated by a thin strip of sea. Between Velaris and the might of the king’s armies lay farmland, countryside, and other cities. They were all in danger if Hybern invaded.

The Priori needed to be informed.

But like the injudicious men they were, no decision would be made until the king’s blade dripped blood on their precious tunics as he held it to their throats.

Cassian looped his arms around her waist from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder. He exuded comforting warmth, even in the dead of summer. Tilting his head, he kissed her shoulder.

“Hybern doesn’t have the timber to build the number of ships they would need to invade,” he murmured. “Leave it for now, sweetheart.”

The door creaked open, Celeste’s head poking through the opening. “Mama!” she cried ecstatically, running over to see Nesta. Before she could get that far, Cassian scooped her up mid-run and threw their daughter over his shoulder, tickling her until she shrieked with laughter and pleas to stop. An unbidden smile came to life. And when her husband turned around, the joy on his face was so pure that her heart ached. His hazel eyes sparkled with mischief and love.

Nesta would never allow Hybern or Lord Soldato to touch her family. That, she promised the Mother.

* * *

Feyre avoided her brother-in-law as much as she could while staying in the same house as him. It wasn’t easy, seeing as he seemed to be everywhere all of the time.

But she couldn’t bear to look at him, to see him laugh when she said Tamlin was dead by his own father’s hand. Nesta tried to apologise on his behalf but Feyre shoved her away. She didn’t want to hear it.

The rage building in her chest spiraled down and down, dredging up anger she didn’t even know existed until now.

Nesta summoned her to the study, holding a page of banners and sigils in her hand. Feyre sat in the offered chair, gripping the arms with white knuckles. She pointed at the symbols she saw on the soldiers’ armor, seeing her older sister stiffen then pretend nothing was wrong when asked about it.

Old wounds opened as Feyre sat in their mother’s study. Why did Nesta get to stay in Velaris? Why was Feyre the one sent away? Everything bad that happened to her was tied back to two people, one in particular: her older sister.

“Feyre?” Nesta said, exasperated. As if she had said it more than once only to receive no answer.

Feyre narrowed her eyes, nails digging into the wood beneath her fingers. “Thisーeverything that’s happenedーit’s all _your_ fucking fault,” she spat. Her voice rose, as did her temper. “ _You_ told Mama about Rhys’s babyーdon’t deny it, I know you did. _You_ accused Lord Soldato. _You_ were the reason I was forced to marry Tamlin. _You_ got to stay here in Velaris with Elain while I was sent south to be the wife to a man I couldn’t stand. _You’re_ the cause for everything bad in our lives. And I hope you know it.”

Shocked, Nesta opened her mouth before closing it again. “I thought you didn’t love Tamlin,” was the best answer she could come up with.

“I did love him!” Feyre shouted. “And your husband’s father killed him!”

“I’m sorry, Feyre.”

Feyre’s panting filled the silence, her anger curling around her like a shield. She felt no guilt for the tears that pricked her sister’s eyes. Felt no remorse as she slammed the door shut.

Rhys grabbed her arm in the hall, words flowing past her. She heard none of it. She recognized the shape of her name on his lips, shoving him off of her. The man she loved stumbled backwards, hurt in his violet eyes. She felt no guilt.

Stalking through the halls, servants pressed themselves up against the walls to hide from her wrath. Feyre had one man on her mind.

Turning a corner, she ran into the broad chest of a heavily cloaked figure. It struck her as odd that they would be wearing such thick clothing in the middle of summer. They nodded to someone behind her. A hand closed over her mouth before Feyre could scream. Then something connected with her temple and the world swam. As she collapsed, she saw crimson in the darkness and the curl of bloodred lips into a cruel smile.

* * *

Feyre Archeron was dead weight, literally. Amarantha gestured to Luca to throw her over his shoulder. Like the mindless grunt he was, he obeyed.

Getting out of the sprawling complex was surprisingly easy, even with one unconscious Archeron.

The girl only woke up when they were docking at port less than halfway between Velaris and Hybern. She trashed like a wild animal, fighting the ropes encircling her wrists and ankles.

“Fight all you want, Feyre darling. There’s no escape,” Amarantha shrugged, picking invisible dirt from under her nails with the tip of her dagger. “Unless, of course, you want to take a swim. I’ve heard the water’s delightful this time of year.”

The thick strip of fabric thankfully muffled any curses spilling from her lips.

Outside the door, Amarantha nodded to Jurian. “Knock her out. But feed her first. Can’t have her dying on us.”

“Si, signora,” Jurian answered, keeping his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

 _The King would have my head if the Archeron girl died,_ the red-headed assassin thought to herself. Death was her talent, yet she was tasked with keeping this one alive.

How fucking poetic.

* * *

“Mama?” Giuliano called out, waiting for a reply. He got none. “Mama?”

Still no reply.

He didn’t know anywhere else she would be. He had already checked her bedroom, the library, Uncle Azriel’s studio, the gardens, and even the kitchens. She was nowhere to be found.

Holding a wicker basket full of leafy green plants, Aunt Elain strode in from the direction of the gardens. She startled when he said her name, hand over her heart. “Bless the Mother, Giuliano, you scared me just appearing like that,” she huffed. Worry crossed her features. “Is something wrong?”

Giuliano fiddled with the hem of his tunic. “I can’t find Mama,” he mumbled.

“Louder please. And head up.”

He obeyed, repeating, “I can’t find Mama.”

“Have you looked in the liー”

“I’ve looked everywhere already! And I know Papa’s dead, even though you won’t say anything!”

His aunt handed her basket to a passing servant, whispering in her ear. Then she turned back toward Giuliano, beckoning for him to go to her. Even though he thought himself too old for hugs, he allowed her to hold him tight, tears trickling down his cheeks.

“Let’s go find someone else who can help us, yeah?” Elain murmured softly, rubbing soothing circles on his back until he stepped back, nodding.

Giuliano stood awkwardly behind his aunt as she talked quietly with her husband. From what he could make out, it was snippets like _he can’t find Feyre_ and _worried about him_ and _should we tell Rhys_.

Azriel crouched to be at his level, his gaze meeting the boy’s. Giuliano watched his uncle, watched him blink slowly. Then a slight nod before the man stood. “I’ll help you look for your mama,” he said.

When Azriel reached for him, Giuliano jumped back out of his reach. Tears burned his eyes and he furiously wiped them away. “I don’t need your help. I want Papa!” he shouted, turning on his heel and running. His vision blurred but his feet carried him to the stables, where he curled up in the corner of the stall with his father’s horse. There, he sobbed.

The palomino shook her head, huffing a warm breath on the boy’s cheeks that made him giggle. Then she gently headbutted his shoulder, laying down next to him. Giuliano played with her white-blonde mane mindlessly.

“I miss Papa,” he sniffled, hugging Aurelia tight.

She kept quiet company until his tears dried on his cheeks, until he fell asleep with his head on her belly.


	20. Nineteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its a short one but uh, yeah

Elain broke the news to Rhys and Rosa.

Rhys allowed the sofa to catch him and slow his fall, his violet eyes filling with tears. Rosa, on the other hand, straightened her shoulders and tipped up her chin. 

“I’m going to find her,” she declared, turning on her heel and leaving the room with a swish of skirts.

Rhys’s head fell into his hands. “Even after all these years, I’m still hopelessly in love with her. And nowーnow she’s vanished.” His mutterings turned crazed and Elain was saved by the appearance of her husband. Never had she been so thankful to see his mess of unruly curls and paint-splattered tunic.

“Love, what’s wrong?” Azriel whispered, catching Elain fleeing and wrapping her in his arms. Tears formed on her waterline, trickling over.

Damn these hormones.

“I don’t know,” Elain sobbed. “I think it’s the hormones but we also lost my baby sister andーand…” she trailed off. Azriel kissed the top of her head, holding her tight.

“We’ll find her, don’t worry. Stress isn’t good for the baby, love.”

“You’re not the one who’s doing all the work here!” she snapped. Then burst into tears.

Whatever his reply was about to be was interrupted by a timid servant holding a piece of paper. The boy could’ve been no older than sixteen. “Madonna, Signor, we in the kitchen found this in the fruit basket from the market. Maria told me to bring it to you,” he babbled, stumbling over his words like he was nervous.

Azriel took the note, thanking the boy and sending him back to the kitchens before unfolding the parchment. He read it aloud: _At this point, I wish to remain anonymous. But I saw little Feyre being carted onto a boat with the red-headed assassin from Hybern. Do with this information what you will._

Elain felt like she was going to be sick.

* * *

The red-headed assassin made sure every time the youngest Archeron awoke on the remainder of their sea journey that a sleeping drought was mixed in with her water. Finally, the ship lowered its sails and docked in Hybern.

This time, when Feyre woke up, they let her stay awake.

Amarantha watched with a delighted smirk as the girl stumbled down the gangplank, held upright on either side by Luca and Jurian. The infernal twins waited on horseback, a carriage nearby.

“Welcome to Hybern, darling,” Amarantha crooned in Feyre’s ear moments before she and her guards entered the carriage. The Archeron fought them until Jurian held his dagger against her throat, lips moving in a silent threat. Her face paled and she sat down, watching Jurian with terrified eyes.

The terror in her eyes reminded Amarantha of a scared animal. How fitting.

She easily swung into the saddle of the horse Dagdan held for her, the animal pawing the slick cobblestones and raring to go. Then they were on their way, heading for the King’s fortress. She was more than ready to leave the port city and its infernal smell behind.

Two of the King’s guards stationed outside the door to the throne room nodded to Amarantha, pulling their blades up and slicing the air behind her as they returned to their position. The King lounged on his throne, chin resting on his fist as he listened to a messenger. He waved a hand and the boy scurried off quick as he could.

“Ah, my assassin. Were you successful?” he asked.

Amarantha nodded, bowing low. “Yes, Your Majesty. The youngest Archeron is now in our possession.”

“Brilliant. Bring her in.”

The rasp of blades signaled the girl’s entry, flanked by Luca and Jurian. Just in case she should try to escape.

Her eyes widened, taking in her surroundings.

A fire roared in the hearth, unable to remove the permanent chill in the air. Pennants with Hybern’s crest hung on the walls. Mounted on the wall behind the King’s throne was his double-bladed battle axe. It was simple. And it was terrifying.

Then her wandering eyes settled on the King himself. Curious blue eyes turned to steel and she snarled, “I’m going to fucking kill you.”

To everyone’s surpriseーFeyre’s the mostーthe King laughed.

“I like you. You’ve got fire, Feyre Archeron,” he chuckled. Quickly, he sobered, his expression hardening. “Too bad you have to die.”

“If you killed her, you would lose a valuable bargaining chip,” a woman said. Feyre’s head whipped around in the direction of the voice in shock. She choked a cry as her own mother stood before her. “Hello, daughter.”


	21. Twenty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter does include a rape/drugging scene so I’ll add * * * before and after in case you’re uncomfortable reading it. other than that, erm plz dont hate me

Cassian stared blankly at the paper in his hand and the words on it.

_At this point, I wish to remain anonymous. But I saw little Feyre being carted onto a boat with the red-headed assassin from Hybern. Do with this information what you will._

His hands shook, the paper rattling. His heart stuttered, his chest tight.

Elain sobbed in Azriel’s arms across the room. Lucien stood with his back to the room, his palm resting on the wall and the other in a fist at his side.

Cassian knew the odds of Feyre returning alive were small. None of them wanted to be the one to tell Rhys that Hybern had taken the woman he loved. It might be just enough to tip him over the edge. 

Nesta gently took the note from Cassian’s hands, covering his with hers. He exhaled a shaky breath, leaning into his wife’s side and resting his head on her shoulder.

The eldest and youngest Archeron never quite got along, Cassian knew. But they were still sisters. When they did get along, everyone feared they were going to wreak havoc. 

“We’re going to get her back,” Nesta murmured, more to reassure herself than anything. “They won’t get away with this.” Her words were a promise cast in stone. Cassian turned to meet her gaze, drinking in the way her eyes burned with silver flame. In that fire he realised she would go to the ends of the world for her family, for her sisters. She would slaughter armies for them.

To save him and Celeste, she would lay down her life. But she would not go without a fight.

“No,” Cassian replied. “No, they won’t.”

* * *

He couldn’t breathe. His chest constricted and he wanted to scream, but there wasn’t enough air.

Boots marched past, accompanied by the rattling of armor. He prayed to any god that listened that no one would hear him, trying to steady his ragged breathing.

Back against the cold stone, Jurian slid to the ground, elbows resting on his knees as he cradled his head in his hands. He let the cold seep into him, allowing it to slow his racing heart.

In Velaris, he dropped a piece of neatly folded paper. On it was Elain Archeron’s name. Inside was information that would get him tortured in the dungeons below the castle. He shuddered just thinking about it. Every soldier in the King’s armies was required at least three times to be on guard duty in the dungeons. He could still hear the screams echoing in his memory.

Holding his hand out, Jurian saw it only shake a little. Good enough.

He collected his sword and scabbard from beside him, taking a few deep breaths before checking the corridor. No one was coming from either direction. Slipping out, he landed on the floor with a thud that echoed too loud for his liking. The heavy tapestry fell back into place softly, hiding the alcove that led to the castle’s secret passageways.

As he headed for the barracks, Amarantha snatched him with his tunic clutched in her grip. She dragged him behind her until the door to her chambers, all but throwing him inside as she locked it from the inside.

Her hand wrapped around his throat, her face sickeningly close to his. “You know the drill, Jurian,” she crooned. He shook his head, refusing. When they originally began whatever this was, it was a simple stress relief. A way for both of them to get what they needed. Then she began needing it more and more. Shortly after that came the bruises he couldn’t explain, the lapses in his memory.

*** * ***

She snarled, removing her hand from his throat to squeeze his jaw open. She unearthed a vial of clear liquid, biting the cork off and spitting it out. Jurian thrashed, trying to escape. He felt the sharp point of her dagger digging into his stomach. Shuddering, he drank the liquid she gave him, his brain going fuzzy the edges.

Amarantha stripped him, guiding him backward until his knees hit the edge of her bed. She shoved him backward, striding over to a privacy screen to disrobe. “Get yourself ready,” she commanded. “You know how much I hate it when I have to do all the work myself.”

Jurian did as she said, his mind not functioning properly enough to refuse. When the red-headed assassin stepped from behind the screen, she was naked. She crawled over him, hand wrapping around his cock as she claimed his lips in a rough kiss. He didn’t kiss her back.

She backhanded him, her rings cutting his cheek. Metal clinked, ice cold around his wrists. Jurian tugged at the metal cuffs, hearing the chains rattle.

As she wrapped her mouth around him, his body responded to her, even though he begged it not to. Amarantha decided he was suitably hard and sank down onto his cock, moaning. Jurian stared up at the gauzy canopy above them, wishing it was over already.

He didn’t know to fight back against her and her knives and her poisons. So he laid there quietly, taking every slap or beating without a sound as she rode him until she came. Sometimes it was just once, sometimes it was more. Today was more. Jurian sank into the mattress when she climbed off him, relief flooding through him.

*** * ***

She didn’t bother to unchain him before donning a blood-red robe and wrapping it around herself. His skin pebbled in the cold air and he shivered.

Jurian’s vision began to go grey at the edges and he didn’t fight it. He welcomed the abyss.

The last thing he heard before he fell was Amarantha thanking him for his months of loyal service because she would finally have what she wanted most: a child.

* * *

Feyre fell to her hands and knees on the cold marble as Amarantha dropped her. She crawled to her feet, tugging at the binding encircling her wrists.

Her mother stood tall, sneering at Feyre.

The cold metal of a blade pressed against her skin and then the ropes fell away. Feyre rubbed her raw wrists, her anger building. Yes, she unfairly blamed her older sister for many things. But their mother was the root of all evil.

Before she could lunge, the cold edge of a dagger kissed her throat, stinging as she swallowed. “Don’t fight,” the inherently male voice whispered.

So she didn’t.

Her eyes burned with an anger to rival her older sister’s, but she was no threat. Right now, at least.

“Feyre, darling,” her mother said, her voice cold and cruel yet laced with a mother’s warmth. A warmth Feyre barely remembered. It trapped her more than the bindings, to remember the nights she and her older sisters sat with their mother, listening to her tell them stories until their eyes fell heavy. Stories about princes and princesses; stories about the Mother’s creation of their worldーstories Feyre loved. “I would like you to meet my former paramour, from the days before my marriage to your father.” Alessandra Archeron spat the words “your father,” her venom taking its sweet time to poison.

The King laughed ruefully. “Former paramour, my dear Alessa? Oh, how you wound me. We both know all too well your youngest could very well be my own daughter.”

Feyre’s world rumbled to a stop. Her heart beat too fast, her hands curling into fists at her side. Her nails dug into her palms, hard enough to bruise but not draw blood.

“No,” she breathed. “Nono, you have to be lying. Thisーthis can’t be happening.” Feyre stumbled backwards, trying to escape. Rough hands gripped her biceps, holding her in place. There was nowhere to go.

She shuddered as her mother dragged her finger down the side of her face. The woman stared at her with a hatred so bright and hot that it rivaled the summer sun. “You, daughter, are a waste of life. It should have been you that died in the womb, not your brother.”

“Brother?”

Her chuckled was strained, painful. “Your brother, fathered by the only man I truly loved. Less than a year after you were born. He was stillborn. He should be alive today, taking your place.”

The words echoing in Feyre’s ear sounded miles away, her head below water while the words grew murky as she sank into the darkness.

Her hand connected with her mother’s cheek before she could think. “You fucking bitch!” she screamed. “I hate you! _I hate you!_ ” Feyre screamed those three words until she was hoarse, even as she was dragged away kicking and screaming.

The man taking her away, by the name of Jurian, threw her in a cell and locked the door. He walked away without so much as a single look back.

She was alone, for the first time in years.

Water echoed in the distance as it dripped from the ceiling. It reeked of Mother-knows-what, the smell of decay and stale piss and blood. The only light came from a sputtering lamp on the other side of the hall outside her cell, doing little to illuminate the floor and keeping it mostly in shadow. In the cell across the hall sat a half-chewed corpse, the rats slowly returning after being scared away by Jurian and his bright lantern.

Her foot sank into a puddle, her slipper soaked immediately. Feyre inhaled sharply, determined not to think about whatever she just stepped in. Thankfully, the straw-filled mattress they gave her didn’t smell like rot or squish like it was wet. The blanket was thin and scratchy, but better than nothing.

She wrapped it around her shoulders, curling up with her back to the corner where the two walls met. The stone was bone-chillingly cold, damp and slimy with what she hoped was condensation and not mold. Or something worse than mold.

Shivering in the cold and dark, Feyre allowed herself to finally cry.


End file.
